Walter Mosley - Fear Itself

“Could she get away with that?”

“She did,” Esau said. “That is, until BB got that Kit Mitchell to go up in there pretendin’ he worked with fancy gardens and shit. He took the boy and give him to his mother, but then he told some rich white man that he could tell Winifred that he kidnapped the boy and that she either had to play ball wit’ him or Son would die.”

I liked the shape of the scheme. There was no real crime, at least not that could be proven. The boy was with his mother and safe, the threat would have been vague enough that a prosecutor might not even be able to prove extortion.

“That was the Wexler kids did that?”

“Yes sir.”

“You know they’re dead, right?”

Fearless walked back in then. I wondered who he could have called so quickly.

“Yeah,” Esau said. “That’s why when that white man gave me the choice between Son and BB, I made up my mind on the innocent. He wanted to trade BB’s hidin’ place for Son and I agreed.”

“What’s Son to you?” Fearless asked.

“He’s Leora’s boy. My nephew by law and by love. She brought him here to me while she tried to fix the damage that Kit and BB had done.”

“What damage?” I asked. “She got her boy. What’s wrong with that?”

“BB and Kit took somethin’ else,” Esau said.

“Necklace?” asked Fearless.

“Naw. I don’t know what it was, but Leora was real upset about it. That’s why she said that she had to find Kit.”

“Why didn’t you just call the cops?” I asked.

“Because this is beyond the police. White man came here to me. White man got his kids killed. Rich white man. All I could do was hope that BB could dig his own way out the hole he dug.”

The pain in Esau’s words was almost a physical thing.

“So,” I said, “Kit took Son out from Winifred’s house.”

“That’s right.”

“Is he in bed yet?”

Esau glanced at the back wall and cocked his ear. At that moment I heard the weak cry of water running through pipes in the wall.

“He’s in the tub by now,” Esau said.

LITTLE CHILDREN IN BATHTUBS must be the same all over the world. More like tadpoles than humans, they kick and slide and laugh at the pleasure of warm water and their own nakedness. Trini was smiling down on her little charge.

“Hey, Son,” Fearless said as we three men entered the bathroom.

When he stared up at us his mouth fell open.

“We need to find somebody,” Fearless continued.

“My daddy?” the child asked.

“No, uh-uh. Not right now. But do you remember a man name of Kit?”

The boy shook his head no.

“One of his teeth is silver like.”

“Oh yeah. That’s the man took me out from my auntie’s house and give me to my mama.”

“Do you know where we could find him?”

“Where the big wheel is,” Son said with a nod.

I was ready to jump in and ask as many questions as necessary to find Kit but Fearless just said, “Thanks, boy,” and turned to walk away.

I put a hand on his arm and asked, “Where you goin’?”

“To get Kit. You comin’?”

33

WHERE TWEEDY BOULEVARD MEETS Santa Fe there was a garage that specialized in all problems associated with car tires. Inner tubes, retreads, patches, and even axles—they had everything. Their insignia was a gigantic transport plane landing tire. It must have been fifteen feet in diameter. Add that to the fact that it stood upon a twenty-foot pylon and you had a strong symbol of your business. It made sense that that tire would dominate Son’s imagination. It also made sense that Fearless would have known immediately what Son had meant, because he had a deep affinity with the wonder of children.

“But suppose it was some other big tire?” I asked. “They got one out in the valley.”

“I don’t think Kit would be hidin’ in the valley, would you, Paris?”

“Might not even be a wheel,” I said. “Maybe it’s something else.”

“Like what?”

“Like a Ferris wheel for instance,” I said.

“Ain’t no circus or carnival down around Watts right now, Paris. And Watts is all Kit knows. Uh-uh, man. We might as well look here.”

I hated when Fearless’s logic defeated me.

“Where we gonna look?” I asked.

There were three apartment buildings and half a dozen small homes across the street from the garage. Behind there was a very large apartment structure, like a lodge, and there were various other domiciles up and down the block.

“He could be anywhere around here,” I said.

“Let’s go get some wine,” Fearless replied.

Diagonally across from the garage was a small banana-colored bodega. The sign above the front door read BRUCE’S STORE.

The Mexican behind the counter had sad eyes and a drooping mustache. But he was smiling still and all. It wasn’t a friendly smile, more like the secure sneer of a man who’s got a shotgun under the counter.

“You Bruce?” Fearless asked right off.

“No. Brucey owns the store. He don’t work at night.”

“He a white guy?”

“No. Like me.”

“Then how he gonna have a name like Bruce?”

“His name was Guillermo when he was born in Ensenada. But he came here to pick lemons and stayed to open this store. He said he didn’t want just our people to come here, that he wanted everybody to be welcome, so he changed his name to Bruce.”

The shopkeeper’s smile warmed while he spoke.

“Legally?” I asked.

“Yes. It’s on his driver’s license. Do you need something?”

The little market was set up like a California liquor store. At the back was a coffin-shaped, glass-doored refrigerator filled with juices, milk, sodas, and beer. The aisles had mostly snack food. Behind the counter were rows of cheap wine.

“Gimme a bottle’a that Thunderbird, will ya?” Fearless said.

The clerk, who was trim and fifty, pulled down a pint bottle, slipping it into a brown paper bag that seemed fitted to our purchase.

“Forty-nine cents,” the clerk said.

Fearless paid with a five-dollar bill. While he was receiving the change he said, “Maybe you could help me out.”

The chill returned to the man’s smile.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I’m lookin’ for my cousin Kit. Brown like Paris here and he got a silver tooth up front.” Fearless pointed at one of his own teeth with a baby finger. “And he drink this here Thunderbird like it was orange juice.”

“Oh yes. I know him. Kit? He never said his name. But I seen him go into that big gray building behind the garage.”

WE CROSSED THE STREET and went up the block to the front of the big building. I was wondering as we went how we could search for Kit while keeping a low profile. After all, the police rousted Fearless for just knowing the Watermelon Man.

As we neared the double doors that gave entrée to the monolithic building, Fearless touched my shoulder.

“Look over there,” he said, pointing to the street.

“At what?” I asked.

“That gray Rambler over there.”

“What about it?”

“That there is Leora Hartman’s car, I bet.”

Not only was it her car but she was in it, laid up against the steering wheel and crying like her own son.

Fearless opened the driver’s door and helped her out. She fell into his arms and cried in utter despair.

I looked around, hoping that no one saw us. In my experience people always remember a woman’s tears. But no one was out on their porches or strolling down the street. L.A. has never been a pedestrian’s town, I thanked the Lord for that.

“He’s dead,” Leora whimpered. “He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.”

“Who?” Fearless asked.

“I think it’s Kit Mitchell.”