Walter Mosley - Fearless Jones

“What happened to you?” I asked.

“They came to take the money,” the man said to Fearless. “They vanted to, but I said no.”

“Here it is! Here it is!” Mrs. Tannenbaum said, rushing through the swinging door. In her hands was a small white pillowcase.

“Take it, Paris,” Fearless snapped. “Put some pressure on that shoulder.”

“Why did they do it? Why did they do it?” Mrs. Tannenbaum was chanting. I didn’t like her color. It was way past Caucasian on the way to chalk.

“They were trying to rob you?” I asked Sol.

“They vanted the bond, the money.” There was a dreamlike quality to his voice. He was going into shock.

He reached up and grabbed Fearless by the fabric of his silk shirt.

“Don’t let them rob Fanny,” he said.

“It’s a bet,” Fearless said.

“Oh God,” the wife cried.

Sol shuddered and tried to rise, but the pressure I was putting on his shoulder restrained him. The pain of the exertion made him wince, then he passed out.

There was a grim look on Fearless’s face. I knew from experience that that meant trouble for someone.

“He’s dead,” Mrs. Tannenbaum said simply and quietly. A whole lifetime of dread ending with a hush.

“Police!” a man’s voice commanded.

I tried to think my way back to the bookstore when it was still standing, but there was no escaping the hand that caught me by the shoulder and flung me to the floor.

7

“WHY DID YOU KILL Sol Tannenbaum?” Sergeant Bernard Latham asked for the fourteenth time.

“All I did was try and stop the bleedin’, man,” I said. Then I squinched up my face, preparing for the blow. But that time he didn’t hit me.

“Tristan confessed,” Latham said instead. The sergeant was a blocky-looking specimen. He was like the first draft of a drawing in one of the art lesson books I sold in my store. Block for a chest, squares for the pelvis, and cylinders for legs. A cube for a head. The only thing that humanized him was a protruding gut.

“Confessed to what?”

“He said you did the stabbing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t think you understand, Paris,” Latham said, pretending that he was my friend. “If he says that you did it and testifies to that, you get the gas chamber and he goes free. We don’t believe him, so what do you have to say?”

“Whatever Fearless says,” I replied.

“What?”

“Whatever Fearless says. If he said I did it, then okay, let’s go to court.”

Latham’s backhand was in great form. He could have gone pro. His blow reopened the cut that Leon Douglas had made in my mouth the day before.

A knock came on the door of the eight-by-eight gray room that the East L.A. cops used for questioning. Another white policeman stuck his head in. I was sprawled out on the painted concrete floor. Latham was deciding between a kick or another backhand.

“They want him for the lineup, Sergeant,” the head said.

When the sergeant didn’t answer, the head asked, “Should I tell them you need a few more minutes?”

It had to be a nightmare. Nobody had luck this bad.

“No,” Latham said. “We want him walking for the lineup. I can work on him some more after that.”

With that he lifted me by the shoulder and brought me to another room where a variety of black men about my size were milling around. A couple of them registered shock when they saw my face.

“Just goin’ on ugly, you the one to pick,” one man in a brown T-shirt and green pants said.

We lined up against a blank wall. A severe light came on, and we stood there. A few seconds grew to a minute. One minute became three. The light went out, and we were led from the room.

Latham came up to me, and I remembered his promise to work on me after the lineup.

It had to be a nightmare.

“Come on,” a small uniformed cop next to the sergeant said in a loud, officious voice.

“I wanted to talk to him a little more,” Latham complained.

“This man is under the authority of this precinct, Sergeant. When you arrest someone in Hollywood, you can have a shot.” Obviously Little Big Mouth didn’t like the sergeant.

I followed him to a large room that was cut in two by a metal grate. On the other side of the grate were large metal shelves with cardboard boxes stacked in them.

A door to my left opened. A lanky police officer walked in, followed by Fearless. My friend was glowering until he saw me. Then he smiled.

“Hey hey, Paris.”

I sighed in response. He knew how I felt. His jaw was lopsided from some heavy questions they asked him.

I looked around for Latham, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“All right,” the cop who accompanied Fearless said. “You guys can go now. But we know where you live.”

I had given them my address but neglected to say that the building had burned down.

A man from behind the grate brought our confiscated belongings to the window. There wasn’t much. Twenty-nine dollars in my wallet, the keys to Layla’s Packard, and Fearless’s empty paper wallet.

We went out through the door where Fearless had entered and then to a door that led to the street. It was a side door, so it was fortunate, or maybe unfortunate, that they saw us.

“Gentlemen,” she called from down the street.

At first I didn’t know who it was. I saw two white women with a big white man, that was all.

“That’s the old man’s wife,” Fearless said. He waved at her and took me by the arm.

A thought crossed my mind: for seven dollars I could catch a bus to Frisco and get a room for two dollars a night until a dishwashing job came through. It was the thought of a job, though, that reminded me of my bookstore.

“Come on, Paris,” Fearless said. “I gave my word.”

The women approached us. One was indeed the old woman who cried so hard over her dead husband that she couldn’t tell the arresting cops that Fearless and I were not the attackers. The other woman was taller and awkward looking, somewhere in her twenties. They were accompanied by a big, dumpy-looking guy who wore black slacks with a white shirt that wasn’t tucked in very well. The pale skin around his chin was blue, though I would have bet that he had already shaved for the second time that day. He was taller than Fearless but soft looking, shaped something like a bowling pin. His big hands were worth looking at; the fingers were long and held out straight, making his hands resemble those of a stroke victim.

But he was not paralyzed. He shrank back, clutching those hands to his chest when we moved to meet them.

“I’m so sorry,” the elder woman said. “I saw what they did to you. I’m sorry.”

“We’re sorry about your husband, ma’am,” Fearless said gallantly.

“You the one who looked at me in the lineup?” I asked.

“Both of you,” she said. “They kept trying to make me say that you were the ones who attacked Sol. One of them was tall like you,” she said, looking at Fearless, “but he had a bigger face and dead eyes, and he wore a cowboy hat.”

“A cowboy hat?” I said, thinking about the horns in my side mirror.

The old woman nodded. “When I said no, they told me that you would never be able to hurt me again. I was afraid that they were going to kill you.”

“Are you all right?” the younger woman asked. Her homely face made her concern seem that much more sincere.

“We have to go,” the man said, putting his discomfort into words.

“No, Morris,” the older woman said. “I have to talk to these men.”

“You don’t know them, Aunt Hedva. The police said that this one just got out of jail.”

“Didn’t my Sol just get out of prison?” the diminutive woman asked.