Walter Mosley - Fearless Jones

“What?” Her face went blank.

“Moved,” I said. “Went away.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. They moved out in the middle of the night. Took everything. All that was left was an empty space and a few paper fans.”

I was sad to make my little report because now there was no reason for her to stay and twist around. I realized that I had spent a little too much time lately wrapped up in books. I had the notion that I should go out to the Parisian Room that night.

Just then the young woman leaned backward and then crumpled forward, into my arms. As I stood there holding her steady, the fear fled my heart. At close quarters her scent was floral, but it was also sharp, like the smell after lightning strikes.

“You got some water in the back?” she whispered.

I nodded and led her through the heavy burlap curtain to the back room and put her on my cot. She was mumbling and crying.

“Are you okay?” I asked, perching next to her.

“Where did they go?”

I couldn’t find the words to hurt her again.

“What am I gonna do?” she cried, turning her head, looking around in the dark as if the room might somehow transform itself into the church she sought. “Reverend Grove is the only one who can help me now.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked, thinking, even then, that I didn’t really want to know.

“I have to find William. If I don’t —” She broke off in tears. I tried to console her but she was bereft.

After a moment or two I heard the front door to the store come open. She heard it too and took in a quick breath. Her fear made me wary again. I rose up and went through the curtain to the store.

The man standing there was a study in blunt. His hairless head was big and meaty. The dark features might not have been naturally ugly, but they had been battered by a lifetime of hard knocks: broken nose, a rash that had raged and then scarred over the lower left side of his face. His eyebrows seemed to be different sizes, but that might just have been the product of a permanent scowl.

“Wherethegurl?” he said in a tone so guttural that for a moment I couldn’t make out the words. “Wherethegurl?”

He was about six feet tall (I’m only five eight), but he had the chest and shoulders of someone who should have been much taller. He was a volcano crushed down into just about man size. His clothes were festive, a red Hawaiian shirt and light blue pants. The outfit was ridiculous, like a calico bow on an English bulldog.

“I don’t —” I said.

“Wherethegurl, muthahfuckah!” He had the build of a fireplug but moved like a cat. He had me by the arm and in the air before I could invent a lie.

“Where is she?” He looked around the room and saw that the burlap curtain was the only exit besides the front door. He threw me at the curtain, and I tore it down falling into the back room. He came in right behind me, looking at all the corners and then at the bed.

My eyes were on him.

“This your last chance,” he said, threat heavy in each word.

I dared a glance at the bed and saw that it was empty.

“I don’t know, man,” I said as bravely as I could. “She come an’ asked about a church used to be around here. I told her that they were gone. So then she said she had to go to the bathroom.”

I gestured with my hand. He saw the door and flung it open with so much force that one of the hinges ripped loose from the wall. All that was revealed was a lidless commode and tin sink.

“Where is she?” He dragged me to my feet with one hand.

“She must’a gone out the back, man. I don’t know.”

I think he slapped me, but I’ve been hit by blackjacks that had more give than his fingers. The taste of salt came into my mouth and the lightbulb on the desk multiplied into a thousand stars.

“Wherethegurl?” a parrot somewhere said.

“She must’a gone out the back,” I repeated.

“I’ll kill you, niggah, no lie.”

He slapped me again and I tried to think of what I could say to save my life. But I didn’t know anything, not even the frightened woman’s name. I decided that, since he was going to kill me anyway, I would go out bravely. For once I would be as brave as my friend Fearless. I had never stood up to a bully in my life. So at least this one last time, in a back room in Watts, Paris Minton would show some backbone. Fuck you, asshole, was on the tip of my tongue.

“Please don’t, brother.” My trembling words betrayed me. “I don’t know nuthin’.”

He slapped me again. My head turned around so far that I was sure my neck had broken.

“You a dead man,” my attacker said.

A child’s voice squeaked, “Mr. Minton, you okay?”

“Who’s that man?” another child screamed.

I fell to the floor, noticing as I hit that my killer wore leather sandals on bare feet. As I lost consciousness I thought that if a man was going to kill me, he should at least wear grown-up men’s shoes.

2

“MR. MINTON? Mr. Minton, are you okay?”

It was a man’s voice. A familiar voice. There was concern, not mayhem, in the words. I opened my eyes and saw Theodore Wally, the clerk from Antonio and Sons Superette next door. He was a young man, but his face was ready for old age. It was medium brown and soft with fleshy weight around the eyes.

“Mr. Minton?” he asked again. “Are you okay?”

I didn’t answer because I was preoccupied with the miracle of my survival. The killer, I figured, was still human enough not to want to murder children. When he saw them he decided to spare me. I lifted my head, and a pain as sharp as Fearless Jones’s bayonet traveled the length of my spine.

“Help me up,” I said, fearing that I was paralyzed.

The little shopkeeper pulled as hard as he could and I sat up. When I got to my feet the pain was even worse, but I could take steps without falling.

“Damn! Ow!”

“You okay, Mr. Minton?”

“Why don’t you call me Paris, Theodore?” I said, angry at the world.

“I don’t know. It’s the way I was raised, I guess.”

“You call Freddy at the hot dog stand Freddy.” A wave of pain crashed in my head. I almost lost my footing, but Theodore held me up.

“You okay? You want a doctor?”

“No. But thank you. Thank you. How come you came in here?”

“Those kids, Elbert and them. They come in the store an’ said you was dead, that a big, ugly man killed you.”

“Where the kids?”

“Outside.”

I tripped over the downed burlap curtain going through the doorway from my back room. When I got outside the sunlight made my eyes feel as if they were going to explode.

“You okay, Mr. Minton?” a too-tall-for-his-age eight-year-old cried.

“Okay, Elbert. Okay. You see him?”

“That man that hit you?”

“Uh-huh.” The pain from the sun was so great that everything was tinged in red. I wondered if that meant I was bleeding inside my skull.

“He drove a blue car like my daddy’s, only it was a light blue and it had horns.”

“Horns?”

“Yeah.”

“What kinda horns?”

“Like the cows in the movies.”

“Longhorns?”

“Uh-huh.”

I fell to my knees and threw up, hard. The boys skittered away, but Theodore knelt down and held me by the shoulders, then helped me back to my back room.

“You should go to a doctor, Mr. Minton.”

“I just wanna sleep, Theodore.” They were the truest words ever spoken. “Do me a favor and pull the shades and lock the door. And put up my closed sign. Please, Theodore.” I added the last two words because I was a transplanted southern boy who learned manners before he knew how to talk.

Theodore moved quietly around the bookstore pulling down the dark yellow shades. I turned out the lamp on the desk and then lay down on my cot. The back room had no windows and so became very dark. When I heard the front door close I made a powerful effort to stand. At first I thought I might throw up again, but the urge passed. I staggered to my desk and let myself down on one knee. It was an old maple desk, heavy and cramped. I only used it to store and stack papers. Store and stack and secret away a .38-caliber pistol on a ledge behind the center drawer. It was Fearless’s gun. I held it for him when he was between apartments. It was in my possession in that capacity when he was sent to jail.