Walter Mosley - Fear Itself
It was September. September is often L.A.’s hottest month. Eighty-five degrees. And still I was shivering on the inside.
Fear is the motivating force behind most of my actions. Whatever it is I’m most afraid of takes all of my attention. Right then I was afraid that the cops could place me at the scene of a murder. Forget that the man had been dead at least two days when I was caught by Warren at the back door. Forget that I had probably erased any scrap that might have put me in the dead man’s suite. If the police liked me for the murder, then I would be the murderer in their book—and their book was the only one that mattered.
I had to know why Kit Mitchell was missing, why Leora and Son were looking for him, and why he would have had free entrée to a murdered car salesman’s apartment.
To answer these questions I pulled back into traffic and drove off toward the office of the bail bondsman—Milo Sweet.
MILO HAD MOVED from his Hooper address, over the illegal chicken distributors, to an apartment building on Baring Cross Street between 109th Street and 109th Place. Loretta Kuroko—Milo’s secretary, girl Friday, and final hope—was sitting in the little front room of the domicile-turned-office. She was forty with the skin of a twenty-year-old and the eyes of some ancient sage. She lived and worked down among black people because of her hatred for the white men who imprisoned her and her family during the war. And she adored Milo with a passion that could not be understood in contemporary terms. It wasn’t sexual, or at least I didn’t think it was. Their bond was like some ancient myth about two ideal characters carrying on their labors through the centuries, living out the drama and foibles of the whole human race.
“Hello, Paris,” Loretta said. “How are you?”
“Fine, Loretta.” I proffered a bunch of dahlias that I’d bought from a florist on Century Boulevard.
“Oh,” she said with light in her deep eyes. “Thank you so much.”
Milo never brought Loretta flowers or chocolates or even a paper cup of coffee—that wasn’t a part of their mythology.
“He’s back there. Go right on in,” she said. “I’ll put these in water.”
The hallway, from the front room to the back, was exactly two and a half paces. On the way you passed the door to a toilet on the right. That was where Loretta would get her water.
The back room was larger than the front, but it seemed smaller because of the eight file cabinets that Milo had against three walls. In those archives he had the records of his days as a lawyer—before he was disbarred—and as a restaurant owner, bookkeeper, and car insurance salesman. He’d also been a fence and a bookie, but I doubted if those records were still intact.
“Paris,” Milo shouted. It was his normal voice, but even Milo’s whisper was loud. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you, Milo,” I said.
He was sitting behind a maple desk, in a red leather recliner, under a naked hundred-watt bulb dangling from bare black cord. The chair in front of the desk looked like some sort of starved four-legged animal. I was afraid that even my few pounds would be the last straw.
But I sat anyway. The legs strained but held.
“What can I do for you?” Milo asked.
Milo’s skin color wasn’t as dark as Fearless’s, but it was close. He was a couple of inches taller than I and a few inches shorter than Fearless. His feet and hands belonged on someone who was much larger, and his body was naturally powerful. But Milo wasn’t a physical man. He was a thinker, a reader, a man who understood power but who was forever blocked from holding its reins.
Milo could quote passages from a thousand poems, do problems in calculus and trigonometry, but if you waved a stack of hundred-dollar bills under his nose he would forget his own name.
“Kit Mitchell,” I said.
The delay between hearing the name and his next breath was enough to let me know that Ted Timmerman had something to do with the Watermelon Man.
“Who?”
“Don’t fuck with me, Miles,” I said. “You know as well as I do that you done sent Fearless down a dangerous road. You know it.”
Milo pulled out a cigar.
If I didn’t know that I was in trouble before, that stogie was the final proof. Milo smoked to hide his nervousness—and he never got nervous until the walls were caving in.
“Talk to me, Milo.”
“What do you know, Paris?”
“Enough to put you in prison.”
The bail bondsman’s eyes widened. I liked that for two reasons. One was that I had gotten to him, raised the stakes. And also I liked to see bright white eyes against black skin—it made me feel like home.
“I don’t know nuthin’ ’bout no prisons,” Milo said. “I know money and I know power, that’s all.”
“So which one did you send Ted Timmerman out after?”
“You met Mr. Timmerman, then?”
“Milo, do I have to go get Fearless? I mean, do you want to do this song and dance with him?”
“I’m not afraid. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
I snorted.
Milo blew out a cloud of smoke.
It was hot in that room. I was sweating even though all I had on was green gardener trousers and a white T-shirt. Milo wore a three-piece suit with a red tie knotted up to his throat, but he was still dry as a bone.
“What’s goin’ on, Milo?”
“Money, son,” the dark-skinned ex-lawyer proclaimed. “Only money, and nuthin’ else.”
“I got twenty-three dollars seventy-five cents in my pocket,” I said. “And compared to Fearless I’m a millionaire.”
“I know you got money in the bank,” Milo said. “Money in the bank and papers on that bookstore. You ain’t broke.”
Milo had been an equal third partner when Fearless and I got our thirteen thousand dollars and almost killed. His money was gone too. But Milo had squandered his cash on foolish investments. He wanted to be rich so bad that he never had a dime.
“Winifred Fine come to see me four, no five, five days ago,” he said.
“And?”
“That’s Winifred L. Fine.” Milo pronounced the name as if he expected me to faint dead away.
“Yeah. I know her. The one own that fruit market down on Avalon.”
“And three gas stations, two hardware stores, and Nathan’s Bakery,” Milo added.
“She own Nathan’s too?”
“She also make Madame Ethel’s Beauty Supply line.”
“Never heard of it,” I lied.
“Black women all over Georgia, Tennessee, Florida, and Alabama use Madame Ethel’s.”
“When did you get to be such an expert on women’s beauty products?”
“I’m an expert on money,” Milo said. “Money, boy. Big money. And when Miss Fine come to me five days ago and says that she needed to locate her nephew, I knew that big money was on the rise.”
“What nephew?”
“Bartholomew Perry.”
“BB’s her blood?”
“You know him?”
“Seen ’im around. He come down Watts all the time, thinkin’ he’s slummin’ just ’cause his daddy owns that used car lot.” An alarm went off in my head but I didn’t let it show.
“So you know where he hangs out?”
“Naw. I just seen him. At Baptiste’s mainly. That’s all.”
“What was he doin’ when you seen ’im?”
“Stuffin’ his fat face,” I said. “He’d bring his high-yellow and white girlfriends down there.”
“All right now,” Milo complained. “Ain’t no use tryin’ to run a man down like that. I’m sure he got black girls too.”
“Not that I ever saw.”
“But you don’t know everything. You don’t know shit.”
“Whatever you say, Miles.”
“How would you like to have a real bookstore?” he asked me. “New books on finished oak shelves with a real cash register, not just some cigar box with the lid ripped off?”
“Sure.” My pulse quickened in spite of common sense.
“Winifred L. Fine can do that for you. She can take a hole in the wall like you got and make it into a co-orporation.”
“What you sayin’, Milo?”
“Like I said—Miss Fine asked me to find Bartholomew.”
“He jump bail or sumpin’?”
“No.”
“Then how did Miss Fine get to your door?”
“You might not know it, but I got a reputation for finding people, Paris. Most the times it’s bail jumpers, but I do other kinds of searches too. I can be discreet.”
“Discreet about what?”
“Miss Fine needs to have a private talk with her nephew. I didn’t ask her why.”
“So you agreed to find a man for somebody and you don’t even know what for?”
“She wants to talk to him. That’s all I need to know.”
“And what’s she gonna pay you for that?” I asked.
“This ain’t about no fee,” Milo said. He shrugged just as if he had already made it rich. “This is gettin’ in good with the richest black woman in Los Angeles, maybe even the whole country. A man could become a millionaire behind a woman like that.”
“Listen, Milo. A missin’ nephew ain’t no million dollars unless there’s somethin’ serious goin’ on.”
“There isn’t,” he said.
I sat back in my spindly chair. The joints creaked and the backrest sagged, but I started to get the feeling that that little chair would hold up under a man Milo’s size, or bigger.
What I had to figure was how much to tell Milo. How much could I trust him?
We were friends—after a fashion. I had done some work for his bail bonds business when men awaiting trial went on the run. Usually I’d just find out where they were hiding and tell Milo. Nothing dangerous.
We played chess now and then and had political and philosophical debates. But we didn’t share the life-and-death kind of friendship that Fearless and I had.
“What does BB have to do with Kit Mitchell?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Milo said. “I hired Timmerman to find BB and he came up with Kit and BB hangin’ out together a few months ago. I think they were doin’ some kinda business.”
“What kind of business?”
Milo pursed his lips and rubbed his thumbs and forefingers together.
“BB might’a crossed the line a li’l bit, but that don’t have nuthin’ to do with Miss Fine and why she wants to talk to him,” the bail bondsman said.
“What kind of business?” I asked again.
“Kit needed some trucks for his melon business and BB knew how to get ’em on the cheap.”
“Hot?”
“There ain’t no proof of that one way or t’other,” the lawyer turned skip chaser said.
“Is that why the police are lookin’ for Kit?” I asked.
Milo shrugged. “Kit’s a businessman and black. You know all businessmen cross the line now and then. But when a black one do it the cops on him like white on rice.”
What Milo said was true but it didn’t explain the dead man nicknamed after a Greek demigod.
“You know a woman named Leora?”
“Never heard of her.”
“She has a young boy-child named Son. Says she’s Kit’s wife.”
“I don’t have any personal information on Mr. Mitchell. He could have five wives as far as I know, and two heads for all I care.”
As Milo sat back in the red leather I wondered if he knew anything more. I couldn’t ask him about Wexler because I shouldn’t have known anything about a murdered man. As far as I knew, Lance Wexler was still decomposing in secret, his foot holding open the door.
“Where does this Winifred L. Fine live?” I asked.
“Why should I tell you?” Milo said.
“All I can say is that you have to trust me. Fearless might be in some trouble around Kit and I agreed to help him out. If I run across BB along the way I’ll make sure you know about it.”
“What kind of trouble?” Milo asked.
“This woman Leora come around and asked Fearless where was Kit,” I said. “She said that she was his wife. She said that he abandoned her and his child. After Fearless asked a couple’a questions the cops come around his place and asked about him. Now the next morning your boy Timmerman comes to my house askin’ about Fearless too. You know neither one of us believes in coincidence, Milo.”
“Maybe not,” he said. “But if there’s a word for it in the dictionary then there’s a chance that it could happen.”
“Tell me where I can find Miss Fine.”
“But you could get to Winifred if I give you her address. You could make all her fortune work for you.”
“Milo, I wouldn’t even know what to do with a beauty product distribution company. All I care about is my books.”
Milo frowned for a full fifteen seconds before calling out, “Loretta!”
“Yes, Mr. Sweet.”
“Write down Winifred L. Fine’s numbers on a card for Paris. Call her and tell her that I’m sendin’ him by.” And then, “You better not be messin’ with me, Paris.”
“I was thinkin’ the exact same thing about you, Mr. Sweet.”
9
THE FINE FAMILY LIVED ON BRAUGHM ROAD, which occupied a strip of land between Santa Monica and Los Angeles. It was a big yellow house, a mansion really, flanked by strawberry farms that have long since disappeared. It had a southern look to it. The driveway was long enough to be called a road. It led to an electric fence equipped with a buzzer, a microphone, and a loudspeaker—all of them held together by black electrical tape.
“Who is it?” a man’s voice asked a minute or so after I pressed the buzzer.
“Paris Minton,” I said.
“Who the hell is Paris Minton?”
“Friend of Milo Sweet.”
“Who?”
“Listen, man,” I said. “Tell Miss Fine that Paris Minton is out here, that I work for Milo Sweet and I need some information to get the job done.”
The loudspeaker went silent and I was by myself out there in the almost country of L.A. There were five different birdcalls that I made out but could not name. Flitting insects were everywhere. A big beetle thumped down on my hood. He sported a shiny black-and-green carapace and seemed to like the heat from the engine rising through the hood. His long legs weren’t strong enough to lift him above the surface, instead they moved like the oars of some ancient galley making its way across the vast brown sea of metal. A blackbird flew up and landed so quickly it was as if she had appeared out of nowhere. She swiveled her head to get a good look at the beetle and then lunged at him with her beak. I could see its oars waving in the air for a moment and then two gulps and he was gone. The blackbird cocked her eye at me and then, in less than an instant, she was gone too.
“Who is this?” a woman’s voice asked from the loudspeaker.
“Paris Minton,” I said.
“And who is Paris Minton?”
I told the new voice about Milo Sweet and my working for him.
“I don’t know nuthin’ about a Mr. Sweet sendin’ no man up in here,” the voice said.
I didn’t respond because she hadn’t asked a question.
“Well, come on in I guess,” the voice said.
The electric fence, made from simple wire gating, rolled half the way across the entrance and then seemed to get stuck. It was still trying to roll but something, somewhere, was an impediment. I got out of my Ford and helped the gate move along its track. Then I got back in and drove the S-shaped driveway up to Winifred L. Fine’s front door.
