Walter Mosley - Fear Itself

I DIDN’T FEEL HIM SHAKE ME but he must have. He’d stayed downstairs for nearly twenty hours, standing guard over my despair. When I opened my eyes Fearless was just sitting there in a chair beside my bed. He’d undressed me and covered me with blankets and a sheet.

“Hey, Paris. Feel better?”

“Ungh,” I said. “Ugh.”

A wave of nausea went through me and I got out of the bed and rushed down to the toilet. My head was aching and one of my nostrils was clogged. I’d lost a fortune because of a car wash attendant who would never know the value of the book he stole.

Fearless was at the kitchen table when I got there. He’d made pancakes with hot maple syrup and country sausage.

“Anybody call?” I asked.

“I took the phone off the hook, man. You needed your sleep.”

“Well, I better put it back. I got work to do.”

My first job was to read the morning paper.

Kit Mitchell had been found. He’d been dead for at least a week. There were signs that he’d been tortured before he died, but the cause of death was not immediately known.

Maybe, after I died and if I went to heaven, the celestial host would give me a medal for ending Theodore Timmerman’s rampage on earth.

RAWLWAY AND MORRAIN CAME BY at about five. Fearless went upstairs before I answered the door.

“Sergeant, officer,” I said in greeting at the door.

“May we come in, Mr. Minton?” Sergeant Rawlway asked.

“Sure can.”

They took seats this time and sat forward with clasped hands and elbows on their knees.

“We found some suspicious evidence at the house of the man you called us about,” Rawlway said.

“Oh yeah? What about him?”

The hairy cop just shook his head.

“Well,” I said, hesitating, “was there something else I could do for you?”

“What did you say his name was again?” Morrain asked in a surprisingly deferential tone.

“Timmerman,” I said. “Theodore Timmerman. Why?”

“His phone records and other papers seem to be a bit confused.”

“How do you mean?”

“He went by half a dozen names. And there were some very incriminating materials in his garage.”

“Really?”

“Just what did he say to you when he was here?” Rawlway asked. He took out the tiny notebook and small ballpoint pen made to scale.

“He asked if I knew a man named Fearless,” I said, looking up at the ceiling as if I had to think about my answer. “Then he asked about Kit. I told him that I didn’t know but I heard that Fearless worked for a man named Kit for a while but that was over now. He wanted to know Fearless’s address and I told him that I didn’t know. That’s when it got kinda strange.”

“How do you mean strange?”

“He put his hand on my forearm and squeezed it hard. Then he asked about Fearless again. It was as if he was testin’ me. You know his eyes were scary, and so I was happy that I passed.”

“Did he say anything else?” Morrain asked.

“No. He let me go and left.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Day before yesterday.”

“And you waited a whole day to call?” Rawlway asked.

“Yeah. Well, you know I didn’t wanna get involved. But then I woke up yesterday morning and I got worried. I tried to get in touch with Fearless but he’d gone somewhere. So then I called you guys because I don’t want my friend to get hurt.”

“It’s unusual for Negroes to willingly give up information to the cops,” Morrain speculated.

“Maybe about other Negroes, but Timmerman or whatever his name is is a white man.” Who died three feet from where you’re sitting, went through my mind.

“If Timmerman calls you again you should call us,” Rawlway was saying.

“You mean you didn’t catch him yet?” I said, putting a little fear in my voice. “I mean, what if he figures to come back here?”

“Don’t worry,” Morrain said. “We got his house covered. We’ll get him.”

“How can we get in touch with Fearless?” Rawlway wanted to know.

I gave them Ambrosia’s phone number and address. Fearless would call her and make sure she wasn’t helpful. Sooner or later he’d have to talk to the cops, but not before we finished our business.

AT NINE EXACTLY I called Bradford Craighton. He answered even before I heard the ring.

“Mr. Minton?”

“Hello, Bradford. I got what you wanted. I got even more than that.”

“Where?”

“Right here at Timmerman’s house. Fearless found the book and left it. He said that he didn’t see any reason to go runnin’ around with Timmerman in the hospital and the police lookin’ into three murders. You just bring my money here. Bring it and we’ll turn over the book to you.”

I never expected to see that money or anything else that was promised to me, but I had to act like I did. I gave him the Ogden address and he hung up the phone without even a good-bye.

44

THINGS FELL INTO PLACE QUICKLY after that. Bradford Craighton was arrested at Timmerman’s house on charges of attempted breaking and entering. Maestro Wexler had him out of jail before noon. The private secretary immediately fled the state, which set off a nationwide search. Over the next days there were a series of articles about the conspiracy between Minna Wexler, her brother, and Bradford Craighton to extort money from an unnamed millionaire. It was also believed that, with the help of an as yet unnamed accomplice, Bradford ordered the deaths of the brother and sister.

Three days later it all came to naught. Bradford Craighton hung himself in a three-dollar-a-night room in Toledo, Ohio.

A long way from the Left Bank.

Maybe a week after that a couple camping in the Santa Monica mountain range found the desiccated body of a tall white man. The corpse had no hands and had also been beheaded. Nearby there had been a fire that contained the remains of human bone.

I PUT IT ALL OUT OF MY MIND: the one unbroken thread of African history as it bled into the world of slavery; the possibility of being a rich man with a house near the shore; the first, and hopefully the last, killing my hands would ever commit. I forgot about everything and went back to my spotty life of book sales and reading.

Rose Fine moved in with Fearless’s mother. Son, Brown, and Leora decided to stay in L.A. to be near her. The cops picked up Fearless but he played ignorant and they soon let him go. The information I found in Timmerman’s files never made it to the news. Neither did the money he had in that rusty box.

A few weeks later I was lamenting not taking at least a few dollars for the trouble Timmerman had caused me. The dread of his evil files and photographs had worn off but the mailman was still delivering the bills. I was having those thoughts when my telephone rang.

“Mr. Minton?”

“Oscar?”

“My sister would appreciate it if you could come to the house this afternoon. Shall we say four-thirty?”

***

THE HOUSE WAS GOING THROUGH a major renovation. The lawn had been cleared of the junk that had been rusting there. The façade was being painted. Hard-muscled men of every race were straining and struggling to make the Fine house into the mansion it could be.

I felt guilty as I approached the front door. I’d lost the greatest fortune this family owned, maybe the greatest treasure for American Negroes. Maybe, I thought, Winifred now knew about the loss and she wanted to hire me to search down the book. I had decided that I wouldn’t take her money. It would just be the wrong thing to do.

SHE WAS SITTING AT HER DESK with the curtains open on the Eden behind her. She wore a pink dress that was cut low enough to show the pendant against her chest. It was a large emerald surrounded by white stones that looked like diamonds but which were really white sapphires.