Walter Mosley - Fearless Jones

“I don’t get it,” Fearless said. “Why would Fanny go to the police? She said she didn’t like the cops. An’ even if she would go, why would she tell on her own family? I mean, I know she didn’t like the boy, but damn.”

“It’s ’cause of Minor. Morris wrote it in the note,” I said. “He said that he’d been working for the man who called himself Minor. But his name was really Zimmerman, a Jew that worked with the Nazis to fool wealthy Jews who had hidden their wealth from the Germans. He told the Jews that they could buy their freedom, but it was a lie.”

I glanced over at Fearless. His jawbones were standing out because of his clenched teeth. No black man liked the notion of the concentration camps; we had lived in labor camps the first 250 years of our residence in America. And for Fearless it was even worse; he had actually seen the camps. He knew the price of this treachery firsthand.

“Why would Gella’s husband work for a man like that?”

“He didn’t know at first. Minor came to him after Sol was convicted and gave him a part-time job working as an art insurance agent. Then, after a few months went by, Minor told Morris that he was working secretly for the Israeli government. He said that Sol had embezzled money that was meant to go to Israel. Sol was already in prison, and Minor wanted Morris to find out from Fanny what he’d done with the money. Slowly Morris figured out that Minor was Zimmerman, but by then he got greedy. Morris tried to find out from Fanny where the money was. But Sol was too slick, he had covered up his business. Fanny didn’t know anything, and there were no records left to be found.”

“And where was this money that Sol could steal it?” asked Fearless.

“I don’t know for sure, but as close as I can figure, Minor was selling off the art treasures through Lawson and Widlow and then giving the buyers some kinda fake history through his insurance company. Lawson and Widlow must have been holding the money, and when Sol found that out, he embezzled it and converted it into bonds. When Morris couldn’t get a line on the dough, Minor came up with Plan B.”

“Leon,” Fearless said with conviction.

I nodded. “Reverend Grove went to Lawson and Widlow with the bond he was holdin’ for Elana. They went to Minor or Zimmerman or whatever you wanna call him. He must’a told them about Leon’s deal with Sol, and Minor went to work getting Leon outta prison.”

“All that was in the note?” Fearless asked.

“Naw. Just about Minor, and Morris workin’ for him. I been figurin’ the rest out myself. Minor figured that the bond was linked somehow to the rest of the money that Sol stole.”

“But that don’t make no sense, Paris,” Fearless said after a long ponder.

“What?”

“Minor spendin’ all that time and money to get at the bond. By the time Leon got outta jail, it should’a been gone.”

“No. The bank needed Sol to cash it, and even if Elana had passed it on, she might have written the numbers down or at least remembered who she gave it to.”

“Oh,” Fearless said. I don’t think that Fearless was incapable of understanding me, he just wasn’t interested in my puzzler’s mind.

“Minor and Leon still lookin’, but I just might know where the bond landed.”

“Oh yeah?” Fearless said.

THE EXETER HOTEL ON Hooper had a red velvet phone booth with a louvered door that shut out all noise and gave the caller a good deal of privacy. I dialed the phone number that I’d put in my pocket for safekeeping four days before.

“Pine Grove Hotel,” a fresh, young female voice declared.

I hung up.

“JOHN MANLY,” I said to the hotel clerk.

“And to what is this pertaining?” the snooty, suited white man asked.

“He the one wanna see me, man.” I was being needlessly argumentative. “Just tell him that I have something to tell him about Sol Tannenbaum.”

“Maybe you’d prefer to leave a message,” the coal-eyed, hollow-chested clerk suggested.

“Maybe you don’t understand English,” Fearless said.

The clerk dialed a few numbers. He picked at the cord nervously while shooting glances at my friend. I thought he was calling for help, but instead he said, “Mr. Manly? I have two men down here who want to talk to you about a Mr. Tannenbaum.”

I smiled and nodded.

“But sir,” the clerk said. “Wouldn’t you prefer to come down and meet them first?”

The clerk didn’t like the answer he was getting.

“Yes sir. I’ll send them up directly.” He put the phone down behind the counter somewhere, then took up a brass bell, which he shook, causing a shrill ring.

A Negro bellman came running from somewhere. Ignoring us he spoke to the hotel clerk. “Yes, Mr. Corman?”

“Not you, Randolph. I want Billings.”

“Yes sir,” Randy said, and he darted away.

While we waited, Mr. Corman became very interested in a loose thread on his jacket sleeve. He took out a pair of scissors and tried to see if he could cut the errant strand at the root. But the run was halfway between his wrist and elbow and it was impossible to hold the thread and cut it at the same time. It was a dilemma. He couldn’t cut the string without taking off his jacket and couldn’t take off his jacket while standing at the front desk. But he couldn’t leave his desk with two Negroes standing there unattended.

“Are we waiting for something?” I asked.

Mr. Corman concentrated on his sleeve.

A new bellman, white this time, came to the desk.

“Yes, Mr. Corman?” he asked, just as fawning as Randolph had been.

“See these gentlemen up to three-twenty-two.”

“Yes sir.”

The walk through the lobby with its plush carpets and potted bird-of-paradise plants was even more humiliating than Corman’s condescension. The women wore fine clothes and all the men had suits on. I was in the same tired slacks and loose shirt, in shoes that had done more than their share of walking. It felt like going to church in your dirty work clothes.

We didn’t molest our escort. It wasn’t his fault that he had to accompany us every step of the way. He knocked for us. The door was answered by a handsome and well-built white man in his late twenties. The same man I had seen bidding farewell to Sergeant Latham and Elana Love.

“Mr. Manly?” I asked affably.

“Thank you,” the bellman Billings was saying to Fearless, and I realized that my friend had given our warden a tip.

“Mr. —?” Manly hesitated.

“Minton,” I said. “And this is Mr. Jones. May we come in?”

“What is this about?”

“It’s about a Jewish fortune stolen by Nazis and one turncoat Jew named —”

“Come in,” the man who answered to the name John Manly said. He backed up, ushering us into the sitting room of a large suite. A yellow couch and four blue chairs were arranged around a table with all kinds of official-looking papers on it. The room was heavy with strange-smelling tobacco smoke. It wasn’t an American blend.

From a side door two more men entered. One was short with heavily muscled arms. He wore a gray T-shirt and ocher pants with no shoes. He had a big belly and a hawkish nose. He wasn’t happy to see us, but from the look of that scowl, I doubted if much made him happy. The third man, and the youngest of the three, was taller and sleeker than Fearless. His skin was pale, and he wore a small black cap on the back of his head.

“This is Ari,” Manly said, pointing at the shorter man, “and Lev.”

We stood there for a moment, wondering what manners to follow.

“Would you gentlemen like to sit down?” Manly asked us.

Fearless moved for a blue chair, I followed suit. Manly took a seat on the yellow couch, but Lev and Ari stayed on their feet.