Walter Mosley - Fearless Jones

“We ain’t got the bond,” I said.

“A sheer technicality, my boy,” Milo responded cheerfully. “If Lawson and Widlow are still looking, it means that your girlfriend hasn’t brought it to them yet.”

“The bond’s worthless,” I said. “Well, not worthless, but only worth the face value.”

“How would you know that?”

I related the improbable tale of two American Negroes and the Israeli secret service.

Milo wasn’t phased. “Well,” he said. “Lawson and Widlow don’t know that. We just jack up the price to ten or fifteen thousand and let them find out on their own.”

“Yeah,” Fearless added. “But we tell ’em that it ain’t no deal unless we sit down with Zimmerman.”

“Why complicate matters, Mr. Jones?” Milo asked. “Get the money and get out, that’s what I say.”

“Money ain’t everything, Milo.”

Milo tried to argue, but Fearless wouldn’t budge.

MILO GAVE Fearless a small .32-caliber pistol that he had taken as a payment from a man charged with distributing counterfeit bills. It was not the kind of weapon Fearless commonly used.

“I usually like somethin’ wit’ more bite,” he said. “But in a sitchiation like this, somethin’ small is even better.”

“Situation like what?” I asked. We were driving toward downtown. Fearless was testing different places to conceal his weapon. He tried his belt, the sleeve of his windbreaker, even in the elastic of his sock.

“Whenever a man tell ya he gonna meet you at the side door, you know he got somethin’ t’hide,” Fearless said. “An’ if he’s hidin’ one thing, then he might be hidin’ somethin’ else. An’ then you got to worry. Me, I don’t like to worry, so I just hide somethin’ myself.” With that he shoved the pistol in his pocket and shrugged.

“Well, you just keep that thing in your pocket, Mr. Jones,” Milo said from the backseat. “This here is just business. Plain and simple business.”

“Okay,” Fearless replied.

I remembered something that my uncle Lonnie used to say. Trouble with a friend who stand by you in time’a need is that you usually got to be in trouble to enjoy his company.

LAWSON AND WIDLOW’S OFFICE was in a six-story stone building on Wilshire. There was a big glass door and vines trained to cover the walls. The windows were large. Garish floodlights bathed the edifice so that it looked official and important on the otherwise dark street.

A big and brawny white man met us at the side door. His face was bland with smallish features. It wasn’t a face that I recognized, but still I thought that I’d seen him before.

“What, three?” he asked. “There’s only supposed to be one.”

His accent sounded European, but I was no expert. It was familiar, though I couldn’t remember where I’d heard the cadence before.

“These are my partners,” Milo said in an officious tone, as though he expected the stranger to hop out of the way. He was acting like a black man who had never experienced racism, who expected his due with no arguments or questions.

The white man didn’t like the idea of partners but finally decided that he couldn’t make us disappear.

“Come,” he said gruffly.

We followed him up three narrow and unlit flights of carpeted stairs. Everywhere was dark until we arrived on the fourth floor, where a light shone from behind a glass door at the end of the hall. Our chaperone opened the door and ushered us in with a gesture of his hand.

Fearless was the first one through the door, then Milo and me, followed by the big man. We all three had different reactions to what we found there.

Fearless swiveled his head around to get the lay of the land. Milo looked at the small suited man behind the desk and sputtered, “What’s this supposed to mean?”

I was proud that I didn’t let the fear I felt come out when I greeted our host.

“Hello, Mr. Minor,” I said. “I wondered when you’d show up again.”

The little man squinted at me. “Rome? No, Paris. You were at the Tannenbaum’s house, no?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Hey, brother,” Fearless said.

When I looked to my right to see who it was that Fearless was greeting, I felt a clenching spasm down in my bowels. Leon Douglas, his eye still puffy and his jaw swollen, stood next to another evil-looking black man. The stranger was taller by an inch and twenty pounds lighter than Leon. He wore a cowboy hat.

Both men glared at us.

“What is the meaning of this?” Milo said again. “Where’s Mr. Widlow?”

“Mr. Widlow suggested to me that the principals should work out the specifics of this transaction,” the little man said. “Sit down, gentlemen.”

Fearless grabbed the chair closest to Leon and his friend, who stood against the wall on our right. The big white man who let us in leaned against the door behind us.

Minor was seated at a vast maple desk that was empty of papers or books or anything else to distract the eye. All he had was a lamp with an opaque green glass shade. Mr. Minor/Zimmerman smiled and nodded.

“How is Sol?” he asked.

“Dead,” Fearless said.

“We have business, yes?” our host asked. Sol’s death was not even worth his notice.

“Who are you?” Milo asked.

“I am Zev Minor.” I would have never known it was a lie from his delivery. He was just a feeble uncle too old and weary to waste time trying to fool you. “And this is Mr. Christopher,” he said, gesturing to the man behind us.

Fearless had his head turned away from Minor. He was pretending to read the titles on a shelf of books. That way our back was covered.

“I think you already know Mr. Douglas. His friend’s name is Mr. Tricks.”

“Just Tricks,” the cowboy said.

“We represent Lawson and Widlow in this business about the bond.” The last three words betrayed the gravity of his interest.

It was then that I remembered where I had seen Mr. Christopher. He was the big man leaving the Messenger of the Divine storefront on the night I was so cold and sleepy.

“This is totally unacceptable,” Milo said, sputtering as he spoke. “I was to meet Mr. Widlow, and I expect to meet with him …”

Milo kept talking because he sensed danger. Words were Milo’s weapons, so he pulled them out. I wasn’t concerned about the bailbondsman or his fears, but when I looked over at Fearless, I saw that his hand had edged nearer to his gun pocket. Fearless was preparing to fight for his life. I could see that in his posture and the almost imperceptible furrow at the center of his brow. I wasn’t worried about Fearless though — if anybody could survive that kind of battle, he could, but the odds for me and Milo weren’t so good.

Under the fear of impending death and with the recognition of Christopher, who I would have bet was the Nazi Holderlin, everything else fell into place in my mind. I wondered if the nearness of death caused some chemical reaction in the brain that increased intelligence, as some scientists say that adrenaline increases physical strength in times of great stress.

I sat forward and said, “We know where Elana Love is at, and she has the bond.”

“Where?” Leon asked from the sidelines.

“My colleague has a good question, Mr. Minton,” Minor said.

“What’s it worth?” I asked.

The little man pressed out his lips and shrugged. “My patience is wearing thin, my friend. Sol Tannenbaum stole my money. It took me many years to get to this moment. Don’t press your luck.”

“You mean the art treasures you stole from the poor people that Mr. Christopher sent to the gas chamber?”

Mr. Christopher said something in German.

“What’d he say?” Leon demanded. “I told you muthahfuckahs I don’t want you talkin’ that shit around me.”