Fearless Jones (18 page)

Most of those comics were torn and tattered. But the ones on the floor were brand-new.

“Where’d you boys get new comics?” I asked Elbert.

“Mr. Wally from the market give ’em ’cause he said he was sorry that our store burned down,” the gawky, fish-eyed boy said.

“Maybe he buy you a new store,” Fearless said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, when his boss giv ’im a little raise.”

WE MADE
the courthouse before Milo. When he came up to us sitting there with Lucas, he didn’t even give the boy a glance.

“Officer of the court been here?” he asked me.

“Yeah.”

“He sign the boy in?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then let’s get outta here.”

I got up off the bench.

“Wait up,” Fearless complained. “I wanna know what’s gonna happen with Lucas.”

Milo took a mangled cigarette from his breast pocket and a match from his vest. He lit the cigarette with deliberation. Then
he said, “We don’t have the time for that.”

“You go on then,” Fearless said. “I brought Luke down here and I’m gonna stand by ’im.”

I would have left Fearless, but Milo was not so inclined. A few minutes later the boy’s court-appointed lawyer, a white man
named Todd, shuffled in and took the boy in for the sentencing. Fearless followed, but Milo and I stayed out.

Milo led me up five flights of stairs to a large and empty, granite-floored hall. We sat together on a polished mahogany bench,
and Milo moved close to me like a man who was just about to get serious on a date.

“What you boys into?” he whispered. His breath was so rank that I had to swallow twice before speaking.

“What did you find?”

“Waverly, Brightwater, and Hoffman,” he replied.

“Who are they?”

“People you don’t wanna know. Lawyers that spend all their time with the mob. The kinda lawyers know where the bodies are
buried.”

“So?”

Milo peered into my face. He took a deep breath and I leaned back before he could exhale. He put a hand on my neck and squeezed
slightly.

“What, Milo?”

“I went down to the state courthouse and fount out that the bailbondsman for your boy is Les Haverford, a white guy work outta
Santa Monica.”

I didn’t ask him anything because I wasn’t sure that I wanted to hear the answer.

“I asked him about Leon Douglas like you asked me to,” he said at last. “Had to lie and tell him that I had a man runnin’
around with Leon and that he just jumped his bond. Give him fifty bucks for an address, but that can come outta your ten percent
for Lucas.”

“Is that why you brought me up here? To talk about my fee?”

“Douglas was in jail for robbery and attempted murder. He was guilty but he was railroaded too. He did it all right, but they
never got the right goods.”

“That’s what Fearless said,” I said, to fill in Milo’s suspicious silence.

“He the one told me about the mob lawyer and whatnot.” Milo stalled again, giving me that questioning stare.

“Come on, Milo. Finish what you got to say or let’s go. This ain’t no interrogation.”

“No?”

“Did you find out where Douglas lives?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s all I want.”

“No it ain’t. Least it better not be.”

“What, Milo?”

“Waverly and them are bad news. And they’re your boy Douglas’s lawyers. They don’t walk into court without ten thousand dollars
in their pockets. They the kind if you a witness against ’em, you might just end up dead. I never heard’a Waverly comin’ in
on no colored case. They do the Jewish mob and the old money when they cross the line. Niggahs don’t mean a thing to them.”

I was clenching my hands together. My nails were biting into the skin, but I couldn’t let go.

“What you an’ Fearless into, Paris?” Milo Sweet asked.

“I don’t know, Milo,” I said. “I don’t know. I was just sittin’ in my bookstore, that’s all.”

“That innocent act ain’t gonna save you, boy. You got to know where you steppin’ on somethin’ like this.”

I told Milo everything I knew. About Fanny and Sol, about Elana Love and Reverend Grove. I told him about the car chase where
they were shooting at me and about them burning down my bookstore. Some of it he already knew, but I laid out everything so
he’d know exactly where I stood.

“So you see,” I explained. “I didn’t start nuthin’. I mean, a man got to seek out some justice if he been done wrong, right?”

“Not if justice gonna be your own hangin’.”

The words bore down into my mind. I pulled my hands apart and rubbed them down my chest. It wasn’t that Milo had let me know
something so much more terrible than I already knew. But his point of view let me stand back and see how frightening my situation
was.

“But there is one thing,” Milo suggested.

“What’s that?”

“If Waverly’s in it, then there’s a whole lotta money involved for sure. I ain’t talkin’ ’bout no colored money now, Paris.
I ain’t talkin’ ’bout six months’ rent or new-car kinda money. I’m talkin’ Swiss ski chalet. I’m talkin’ luxury for life.”

Or death,
I thought.

“So what you sayin’, Miles?”

“Let’s work together. Let’s find out where the money’s comin’ from. Let’s skim a little luxury off ’a the top.”

“I thought you was so scared’a these boys?” I asked.

“I am,” he agreed vigorously. “Them boys scare me. They should scare you too. Shit. These boys is serious.”

“But you still want in with me an’ Fearless?”

“Just ’cause I’m scared don’t make me no coward,” Milo
claimed. “I don’t want them white boys feelin’ that just ’cause they walk in the room that I’m’a scurry out like I’m some
kinda rat or cockroach. Naw, baby, scared keep ya sharp.”

FEARLESS, LUCAS, AND INEZ
were waiting out in front of the courthouse when Milo and I came down. Inez was grinning at Fearless, holding his hand. He
took it all in good spirit, but I could tell that Inez wanted something more tangible.

“Thank you, Mr. Minton,” Lucas said. “They makin’ me do community service with the county park department, but you know that’s
good. The judge said that if I learned somethin’ they might just give me a real job there.”

“Thank you, Paris,” Inez said. “And thank you for believing in us, Mr. Sweet.”

“Uh-huh,” the ex-lawyer grunted. “Fearless, you, me, an’ Paris gotta talk.”

“Okay, Milo,” the war hero said.

Inez didn’t want to let go at first. But Fearless finally managed to disentangle himself.

“You gonna call me, Fearless?” she asked.

“Just as soon as I get me a phone, baby. Just as soon as I get me a phone.”

“
WE WORK IT
together and split whatever profit three ways,” Milo said to us at his office after sending Loretta out for sandwiches.

“Not that I wanna insult you, Milo,” Fearless said, “but what you gonna do for us to deserve a third?”

“I found out about Douglas and his lawyers, didn’t I?” Milo whined.

“We agreed to find Lucas in trade,” I said.

“I let you sleep in my office.”

“That’s about two percent,” I said. “Where’s the other thirty-one and a third?”

“You’ll definitely need professional help if it comes to making bonds into money,” Milo suggested.

“That could work on a percentage,” I replied. “And not nowhere near the kind you want. I mean, you can’t even practice law,
Miles. If we needed someone in a courtroom, we’d have to hire somebody else.”

It was a ritual dance. The conclusion was foregone. Fearless and I wanted Milo in it with us. He was smart and he knew things
we didn’t, and he was less likely to turn us over than some other men we knew. But the problem we had — the problem we always
had — was money.

“How much?” Milo asked.

“The same amount you was gonna lose on Lucas,” I said.

“Six hundred dollars!”

“That’s it,” Fearless chimed.

“In cash, in our hands, right now,” I added.

“This come back on the other end,” Milo amended.

“Uh-uh,” I said. “Our blood, your money, that’s the fuel and the investment.”

When Mr. Sweet put those thirty twenty-dollar bills on the desk I knew that he believed in us. I was a young man then. His
faith would only mean something to a young fool.

THE FIRST THING
Fearless and I did was to drive over to Merrydale Circle, a single-story court of apartments on Ninety-fifth Street. Fontanelle
Roberts was the superintendent of the nine units there. She rented to tenants by the week and paid the owners based on a monthly
rent schedule. Monthly rent was forty dollars, but she charged eleven bucks a week.

Fontanelle was also a bookie, a fence, and a go-between when somebody needed the services of a criminal or a shady doctor
or lawyer, all of whom she held in the same low esteem. She was a small woman with dark red skin, Negro features, and black
eyes. She always wore a dress and hat. She carried a purse too. In that purse was a dull gray .45. I knew about the gun because
she once showed it to me and said that she celebrated every January 1 by
firing off the old bullets and then reloading with fresh ammunition for the new year.

“Hi, Fearless,” the older woman cried, honestly happy to see my friend. “Paris.”

“Hey, Fell,” I said. Fearless echoed my greeting.

“What happent to yo bookstore, Paris? I seen it all burned down. They was clearin’ off the lot.”

“Who was?”

“Workmen. Had a fancy truck with writin’ on it, but I didn’t stop to read.”

I wanted to know more about the lot I’d left behind, but there was no time for nostalgia with the tasks before me and Fearless
Jones.

“You got a place for us?” Fearless asked.

“How long you boys wanna stay?”

“We’ll pay for the month,” I said, knowing that the price went up if you didn’t pay four and a half weeks in advance.

“You got furniture?” the ebony-eyed businesswoman wanted to know.

We didn’t answer.

“I had Florence Landis move out real quick last week. She left one adult bed and another one for her boy. There’s a table
and chairs and some kitchen supplies. Two dollars more a week and you can have it.”

“Okay,” I said, going for my pocket.

Fontanelle reached out to stay my hand.

“Is this just livin’, or is it bidness?” she asked.

“Livin’,” I said.

Fontanelle didn’t have anything against me. We had done
bidness
in the past and I never gave her any reason to question me, but she turned to Fearless, the same question in her glance.

“Livin’,” Fearless repeated.

Fontanelle smiled, took our money, and went to find the keys.

WE DIDN
’
T SPEND
more than an hour in our new home. Two seven-minute baths, canned soup heated on the gas range, and we were out of the door.

Milo had found out from the white bailbondsman that Leon Douglas had taken a place on Orchard Street just a little south of
Vernon Avenue. It was on a small half-lot, but that didn’t matter much because the house was no larger than a shack. The paint
was so faded and worn that it was hard to tell if the place had been white or tan or blue.

“Ain’t that your car parked on the lawn, Paris?” Fearless asked.

It was. I wondered if Elana went along with the wheels. Had he killed her? I doubted it.

“Paris?”

“What?”

“What you wanna do?”

On my own I watched or lied or misrepresented. I never took danger head-on if there was a second choice. Fearless was the
opposite of me; he moved ahead as a rule. He might use a back entrance or even surprise, but no matter what, he was always
going forward.

I considered going up to the front door, but then Leon Douglas returned to my mind. He was an engine of destruction, a stick
of dynamite ready to explode.

“Let’s watch for a while, Fearless.”

“How come?”

“Maybe he’s got some accomplices in there. These are desperate men. If we walk in and find ourselves outnumbered, they ain’t
gonna let us stroll.”

Fearless didn’t look convinced, but he sat tight. We had a good relationship in the field. He would call me the intelligence
officer, while he was the man with the heavy artillery.

We moved down to the end of the block to watch the house from a distance. That street was populated by black people from the
South. Almost everyone in that neighborhood was from someplace down in the western South. Texans, Louisianans, some from Arkansas.
Southern neighborhoods, even in the North, were friendly in the extreme.

Small children were drawn to us first.

“Mister, why you sittin’ in your car?” a boy no more than three asked Fearless. He was wearing a T-shirt with horizontal rainbow
stripes but no pants or underwear.

“Waitin’ for somebody,” Fearless replied.

“He waitin’ for somebody!” the boy yelled at a gang of kids who were standing in the driveway of a nearby house.

The children then wandered down to the patch of grass at the curb next to our car. One girl, probably the boy’s older sister,
brought down a small pair of blue pants for the brave scout.

“He don’t like his clothes,” the shy six-year-old told us while tussling with her brother.

They asked us a few more questions and then set up camp there next to the car, playing games and shouting. I was nervous having
them there, but Fearless calmed me.

“It’s like camouflage, Paris,” he said. “Nobody gonna be suspicious of kids tearin’ and rippin’ around.”

After the little kids the older ones came by. First it was the twelve-year-old boys on their bicycles and then their older
sisters. The girls were young and budding nicely. They were part children and part women, leaning up on Fearless’s side of
the car.

“Could you take us to the store?” one fifteen-year-old asked.

“Not my car, honey,” my friend said easily.

“But if your friend wanted to, would you take us?”

I was beginning to get nervous because there was a definite logic to that line of guests. First the babies, then the children,
next the boys on bicycles that they dream can fly, after that the young girls who feel the stirrings of womanhood — wary mothers
and angry fathers wouldn’t be too far behind.