Fearless Jones (15 page)

Zev’s eyebrows knitted a fraction of an inch again. He stared at me long enough to ask himself a question and answer it, and
then he nodded. He downed his drink and then stood up.

“If you see Morris, tell him to call me,” he said. “Tell Morris and Gella both how sorry I am. It’s so sad. It’s more than
sad.”

He walked heavily toward the front door. I followed him, feeling guilty, like I had knocked somebody down and then kicked
him for no good reason.

At the front door I said, “Mr. Minor.”

“Yes, Mr. Paris?” I could tell by his voice and his eyes that he was expecting me to give him a way to call Sol.

“Do you have a number I could give Gella and Morris?”

The expectations died in Zev Minor’s eyes, but he didn’t seem bitter.

“Morris knows my number by heart,” Minor said. “Don’t forget to tell him that I called and how sorry I am. Tell him that I
will do whatever I can.”

“Where’d you say you knew Sol from?” I asked in a bushwhack sort of way.

“We were from the same town, like I told you,” he said in a whispery tone, “but that was long ago.”

“And he introduced you to Morris?”

“No,” Zev said. “That’s what’s funny. I met Morris only in the last year. We were doing business together, and while we were
talking I found out that he was married to Sol’s niece.”

“I thought that Morris worked for a bank?” I asked.

“That’s right.” The tiny man reached out for my hand.

His skin was dry and papery, a little cool.

A few minutes after he left I shuddered, recalling the feel of his onionskin hand on my fingers.

ZEV MINOR
’
S VISIT
faded quickly from my thoughts. I felt sluggish once alone again. The death of Fanny Tannenbaum had hit me hard. She was
just an old white woman, that’s what I thought, but she reminded me of the women in my own family. She was strong and brave
in the face of people much more powerful than she. She was sweet and comfortable in the company of strange men. Maybe she
even sparkled a little while cooking for us and ironing our clothes.

I knew that I should be doing something, but I didn’t remember what.

I went through the library in the den, finally resting my eyes on a book, the title of which I had never seen before.
Dead Souls,
by Nikolay Gogol. The preface said that it was a Russian masterpiece. I had read Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky but never Gogol.
The preface went on to say that he wrote about the travesty of serfdom
in old Russia. It seemed like those old white people used to own each other at the same time that whites owned blacks in America.

For a moment or so I forgot about my problems and started to read the words of the long-dead Russian.

I suppose that the lock on the front door had been wedged open by the cops, because he just walked on in without rousing me
from my reverie. When I sensed a shadow passing somewhere at the edge of my peripheral vision I jumped, screamed, and threw
my book all at the same time. Luckily my aim was bad and Fearless had stayed back, knowing how jumpy I could be sometimes.

“Hey, Paris,” he said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I give.”

He wore black jeans and a denim jacket of the same color over a gray shirt. There was a watch with a gold band on his wrist
and a pair of sunglasses stuffed in the breast pocket of his new jacket.

I wanted to crack wise about his new wardrobe, but the fear that made me jump was deeper than just edginess.

“What’s wrong, Paris?”

“They killed Fanny.”

Fearless and I hadn’t met until we were both full-grown men, but I felt that I knew him as a child, because every once in
a while the boy would come out in his face. Loss and disbelief erased any swagger from the sex he had had with Dorthea the
night before.

“No.”

Blood padded in from the doorway and regarded his newfound master.

“Somebody came in and choked her.”

“Where were you, Paris?”

“I was out lookin’ for them Messenger people. Didn’t come in till about eleven. I went over her niece’s house to get her,
but Fanny’d already come here.”

Fearless hunkered down on the floor, elbows on his knees, hands propped on either side of his face. Blood licked a hand, but
Fearless pushed him away.

“Who did it, man?”

He wasn’t looking at me, but still I only shook my head.

Fearless stood up all at once.

“Muthahfuckah,” he said, and then he grabbed me by the front of my shirt and lifted me from the floor.

He raised his fist, but I didn’t resist. Fearless was one of the kindest men I ever met, but the devil lived in him too. In
a rage he was capable of murder. But he had never killed any friend that I knew of.

His eyes could have belonged to a dead man, they were so fixed. He didn’t seem to be breathing. I hovered there an inch or
so over the floor.

Even though I’m often frightened, I have never been afraid of Fearless. I felt such a deep kinship with him that he never
scared me.

When he let me go I stumbled but remained on my feet.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“Ambulance took her,” I said. “Gella went with them.”

“What you got?”

I considered my words carefully then. I knew he was close to killing, and I was taught never to point a loaded weapon at somebody
unless I intended to shoot.

“Grove called me. He’s gonna meet us at the Charles Diner at nine.”

“He do this?”

“Naw. Naw, I don’t think so.”

“He know who did it?”

Before I could answer, Blood started barking and Morris Greenspan rushed in.

“Blood!” Fearless commanded, and the dog, still growling, stood down.

“Where?” Morris Greenspan asked. He was looking around the room. His eyes stopped on the floor of the den. “Gella said it
was in there.”

The big, sloppy man was nearly in shock. His eyes were wide and his voice was strained to cracking. He lurched into the den
and looked around, twisting from side to side.

“What happened?” he shouted, and then he fell to the floor just like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum. “What happened?”

He jerked and flailed around on the carpet for a while, but I didn’t mind. At least the spectacle distracted Fearless. After
a minute or so we helped Morris back to his feet and sat him down in a chair.

“Why would anyone… how could they?” he said, and then he cried in earnest.

It was a deep, mournful wailing with no modesty or shame. He cried from his eyes and nose and mouth. He bent forward in the
chair and called out for his Fanny, his Hedva. It was more like a pagan priest who had witnessed the death of his patron deity
than a man who’d lost an in-law.

It was a full ten minutes before the lament subsided.

“How did you hear about it?” I asked.

“Gella called me at work from the hospital. She said that they were taking her to the police station to talk.”

“What did she tell you?”

“That Hedva was dead!” he declared.

“Did she want you to pick her up or meet her?”

“She, she… I guess.”

“Then why did you come here?”

“I thought I could do something. I hoped I could do something. I wanted to help.”

“But she’s dead, man,” I said. The anger probably came from my own frustration. “She’s dead, and your wife needs help down
at the cops.”

“Leave him alone, Paris,” Fearless said.

Blood growled to back up his new master’s command, but he wasn’t sure if he was growling at me or Morris.

“No,” Morris said. “He’s right. I should go.”

“You better not drive,” Fearless said. “We’ll take you.”

GELLA WASN
’
T
too much better off than her husband. She was sitting at the far end of the long bench in the entrance room of the Boyleston
Heights precinct. There were a few others seated here and there. Mostly Mexicans. Mostly women. Waiting for their men, I guess.
Nobody seemed happy.

One young woman, she couldn’t have been twenty-five, had four small children running around, a toddler holding on to her skirts,
and a baby in her arms. The children laughed and played on the hard floor, explored the area in front of the sergeant’s desk,
and watched as three brown men were brought in in chains.

Them chirren is where they gonna be,
I could hear my mother say.
Ain’t nobody even care ’cept her. An’ look at her. What could she do?

When Gella saw us she went straight to her husband and put her arms around him. He brought his arms around her, but it was
more a hopeless gesture than it was a hug. Fearless and I waited for the pitiful embrace to be over, and then I suggested
we make tracks.

But before we could get out of there a ranking officer in uniform came up to us.

“Mrs. Greenspan,” the tallish, portly man said. His smile was an amenity, like a blindfold offered before the firing squad.
“Is this your husband?”

“Yes. This is Lieutenant Binder,” she said to our assembly.

Binder shook Morris’s hand and looked into his eyes. “Sorry for your loss.”

Morris mumbled something.

“Which one of you boys is Paris Minton?” the policeman asked.

I hesitated and then lifted a finger to indicate myself.

His eyes were peacock blue, his skin tended toward gray.

I was trying to keep my mind on freedom.

“Would you spare me a few minutes?” Lieutenant Binder asked.

He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he touched my arm and steered me to a small room behind the admitting sergeant’s desk.

It wasn’t a room really, but just a space behind a frosted glass door. Inside were a wooden table and chair. It was a place
where the desk sergeant could eat his meal or take a cigarette break.

“Mrs. Greenspan tells me that you happened on her great-aunt and -uncle after they were attacked two days ago,” the lieutenant
said.

“Yeah, yeah. We were lookin’ for a gardenin’ job, and then there the old man was, stabbed.”

“Then the old woman invited you to stay at their home?” He had the satisfied grin of a crocodile.

“We needed a place to stay,” I said.

“Because of a fire, I believe the young lady said.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Sit down, Mr. Minton,” Binder said.

“No, thank you.”

“Sit, please.”

“No,” I replied.

That was the test. If I were close to arrest he would have made me bend. That’s how it worked: a cop pushed you to the limit
but never more unless he could turn a key on you.

“Okay,” Binder said. “Have it your way. I just wanted to ask you a few more questions.”

“Shoot.”

He didn’t jump right off. First he gauged me with those shiny blue eyes of his. His orbs were so bright that it was hard for
me to imagine that there was intelligence behind them.

“What do you think of these Jews?” he asked. He twisted his lips on the last word as if it was a lemon peel in his mouth.

“Like you say, I’ve only been there two days. That whole time the old man’s been unconscious in the hospital. Fanny’s okay,
though.”

“Did she get along with her niece and her nephew-in-law?”

“Yeh. Sure. I mean, she thought Morris was kind of a fool. But I guess he kinda is.”

“Do you think that either one of them might have wanted the old Jews harmed?”

Jew
turned to
nigger
in my ears, and I started disliking the cop.

“No,” I said. “No. The girl and Fanny really loved each other. And Morris is more broke up than Gella over Fanny bein’ dead.”

Binder wasn’t really listening. He didn’t really care about the people in this case. But he seemed to want something. He regarded
me again with those beautiful but stupid eyes.

“What about Bernard Latham?” he asked.

At first I thought we were experiencing an earthquake. The ground seemed to swell under my feet. I regretted my decision to
stand.

“What about ’im?”

“What did he ask you?”

“He wrote it down, man.” I got dodgy, hoping to figure out where these questions came from — and where they were going.

“Don’t get wise, son,” the uniform said.

“He wanted to know why we were at Fanny’s house. He thought maybe we were the ones who stabbed Sol.” I decided to skim the
truth off a little at a time.

“Who’s we?”

“Me an’ Fearless.”

“Fearless the other boy outside?”

“Latham brought us here,” I said.

“Who was he riding with?” Binder asked.

I tried to remember. I was handcuffed and in the backseat next to Fearless.

“He was in uniform,” I ventured. “White guy. Pink really.”

“Billings?” Binder asked. “Pullman? Nazareth?”

It’s a mess, Naz,
I remembered Latham saying to the cop next to him in the front seat. At the time it meant nothing to me.

“I think I heard him call somebody Naz,” I said.

Binder considered me then. He could have delved deeper into my story, or he could let me go.

“And…,” I said.

“And what?”

“I seen where Sergeant Latham been all over town. I mean I saw in the newspapers that he was interrogatin’ that guy who got
shot down in Watts and died over in Mercy Hospital. I just figured that he was on some kinda citywide police unit to be showin’
up all over.” I was hoping that Binder didn’t read all the papers. He probably didn’t. He probably didn’t know any more about
that crime than any other citizen.

“What paper did you read that in?”

“I forget. Either the
Times
or the
Examiner.
It was just on the counter in a coffee shop I was at. You know I was surprised to see Latham’s name over south when I knew
he was a Hollywood cop and I had just seen ’im in East L.A.”

Again those eyes considered me. They probed so deep that I began to wonder what he could have on me. I hadn’t done anything
wrong except maybe to take that money from Sol’s drawer. That’s when I remembered the pistol I had hitched up in my belt.
They wouldn’t frisk me unless I was going to be arrested, but if they found an illegal, and stolen, concealed weapon on me,
prison was right around the corner.