Fearless Jones (21 page)

“This the first time you ever thought that a woman use sex to get what she want?” I said.

“ ’Course not. But I never thought of it like fightin’. I never thought that a kiss could be like a loaded gun.”

I had never thought of that either.

BY FOUR A.M
. Fearless had fallen asleep in the backseat. It was cold again, and I could see the steam of my breath in the darkness. I
closed my eyes, trying not to think about what Elana and Latham were up to.

In the dream I was standing at a corner flirting with a woman, Elana Love. I had a long key chain, and I was twirling it while
telling her lies about my riches and exploits. There were children playing on the street and a fat man sitting on a wooden
crate. The man was winded and asking for help. I thought that he might have been having a heart attack, but I kept talking
to Elana anyway. In mid-swing of my key chain I felt something like a nibble on the bait of a fishing line. I looked and saw
three of the children from the day before running away. They were rounding the corner into an alley.

“Stop him!” the fat man yelled. “Stop!”

I realized that the smallest boy had taken my keys. I took off after them. It was the opposite of the dream I usually have.
Usually I’m running hard trying to get away from some attacker; I’m running hard but I make no progress. In this dream I was
running at full speed unable to close the gap. The children were scurrying like little kids do while I barreled down on them,
getting no closer. The fat man was laboring behind me, yelling, “Stop! Stop!”

“Paris!” Fearless said.

I was just gaining on the kids, but then someone grabbed my shoulder. Three loud gunshots blasted through my dream.

I opened my eyes. Fearless was rushing out of the passenger’s door from the backseat.

“What?” I said, and then there was a fourth report.

Fearless was running toward an alley down the block from the motel. I turned the engine over and nosed the car to follow.
Before I reached the alley I heard a car screeching in the motel lot. I looked back and saw Latham’s sedan race off in the
opposite direction.

Under the neon glow of the motel sign I caught a glimpse of Elana Love at the wheel. I couldn’t follow though, because Fearless
needed me. It was just like old times, times that I wished were over and forgotten.

Lights were coming on in the windows of an apartment building that bordered the alley. Two men were down. Fearless was moving
from the first body and going to the second. I jumped out of the car.

“We got to go, man!” I shouted through a whisper.

The soldier ignored me. The second body was still moving. The first man, who was sprawled out on his belly, was Reverend Grove.
His left temple was gone, and grim dark liquid had leaked out next to his amazed eye.

The other man was Latham. Fearless squatted down next to him. The wound in his chest looked bad even in that weak light. His
breathing was labored and liquid. There was no mistaking his gurgling. The rest of his life would be measured in seconds.

He said something, and then he said something else that resembled the first sound but was even less comprehensible.

“Come on, man,” I said to Fearless.

Latham faded out then. I think that was the moment he died, but the final end might have come a moment or two later.

Fearless stood. He nodded and said, “There was somebody else.”

“What?”

“When I got here, there was somebody way up the alley — runnin’.”

“Come on, Fearless. We gotta get outta here.”

“What about the runner?”

I noticed a purse on the ground a few feet farther down the alley. Fearless saw it too.

As he went to pick it up, I said, “Probably some tramp didn’t wanna get his ass shot off.”

Fearless picked up the purse, and then we were both running for my car. I backed into the street and drove away from the motel.
Through the rearview mirror I could see that there were people standing outside of the windowed office, talking and pointing
toward my car.

After a block or two Fearless began laughing. He laughed full out.

“What’s wrong with you, fool?” I said, afraid that he had cracked under the strain.

“Nuthin’,” was all Fearless could say for a moment. He had to take a deep breath to keep the mirth down.

“Nuthin’? Have you gone crazy?”

“Naw, Paris. Naw, man. It’s you.”

“Me what?”

“You know I promised myself a long time ago that I wasn’t gonna put myself back in a war for nuthin’, not even America.”

“So?”

“This right here is war, baby,” he said, suddenly serious. “And where my own country couldn’t make me — you did.”

He made another short bark, but this time there was no humor behind it.

IT WASN’T UNTIL
I was parking down the street from Arthur’s Pet Shop and Animal Grooming that my hands stopped shaking. The side door to
Arthur’s led to three rooms that made up an after-hours club that a few dozen regulars kept in business. In order to get to
Arthur’s you had to come in the back alley and park at least a block away. It wasn’t a party place or a music hall; there
wasn’t any dance floor. All it was was a jukebox and Nathan Wellman, an insomniac tailor who ran the place to make a few extra
dollars while having people to talk to between midnight and dawn.

Nathan brought two generous shots of whiskey to our table.

“You boys look serious,” Nathan said as a conversation opener.

“I need to use the phone, Nate,” I replied.

He gave me a sour look and went over to the mahogany bar,
returning with a baseball bat that had a hole drilled in the handle. Through the hole was knotted a string that held a single
brass key.

Nathan’s place was a dive. The wood floor wasn’t sealed or waxed, the walls were devoid of paint. The tables and chairs were
mismatched and wobbly. But for all that it was primitive, Nathan’s had something that even the Waldorf Astoria in New York
City couldn’t brag about; he had a telephone
room.
It was rustic and spare, but it was a whole room, six feet square with a pay phone on the wall and a table and chair. There
was a phone book too.

I dialed a number.

“Las Palmas,” a woman said, after answering on the sixth ring.

“Certainly,” I said, doing my best to mimic the snooty Landry Lamming. “Helen Huggins,” I continued, cursing myself for making
up such dumb names, “in room twelve B, if you please.”

“Uh… well… hold on,” the night clerk said.

There was silence and then a series a clicks and bangs. A man’s voice finally said, “Who is this?”

“Excuse me,” I said primly, “but I asked for Miss Huggins in twelve B. They must have connected me with the wrong room.”

“Who is this?” the man repeated. “Are you the one who called twelve B earlier tonight?”

“Who, may I ask, are you, sir?”

“Police Sergeant Bryant,” he said. “Did you call earlier tonight?”

“I was looking for my friend,” I said. “Miss Huggins.”

“Did you ask for a man named Latham?”

“No. Who is he?”

“He was with the woman in twelve B.”

“Oh my,” I said in a fey tone.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Is Miss Huggins in trouble, Officer Bryant?”

“I’m asking the questions, Mr...?”

“Is Miss Huggins there, Sergeant?”

“Two men have been shot,” Bryant said, trying the frank approach. After all, maybe I really was a foreigner, far from home
and unfamiliar with the legal customs of America.

“And Miss Huggins?” I asked, all aflutter.

“There was a woman. She fled the scene. You say her name is Huggins?”

I chose that moment to hang up.

Nathan and Fearless were having a good old time talking about Fearless’s experience in the county lockup. I came back and
downed my drink. Fearless took that as a cue to stand.

“See you later, Nathan,” Fearless said.

“But you didn’t finish your story.”

“Save it for the next time.”

Fearless clapped Nathan on the shoulder, and we left.

WE MADE IT
back to Fontanelle’s court near five. I let Fearless have the mother’s bedroom. I took the child’s bed, just a urine-stained
mattress on the floor, because I was the smaller of us two. As scared as I was, I needed sleep. We had nothing to go on. Elana’s
purse was ripped open and the bond was gone. The bond was gone and we didn’t know who had it. I had a pretty good idea that
it was in Elana’s possession, but at five in the morning I hardly even cared.

I slept soundly until I felt a tongue on my face. I opened my eyes and saw Blood, Fearless’s adopted dog. I sat up and pushed
him away. Fearless was drinking some hot liquid out of a cup and relaxing, slouched back in his chair. From his demeanor you
would have thought that we were on vacation.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“’Bout twelve-thirty.”

“Where’d this dog come from? I thought you left him with Dorthea.”

“I called her, and she told me to come get ’im.”

“What you think Fell gonna say when we got pets in her court?”

“That’s three questions wit’out you sayin’ good mornin’,” Fearless said.

“Good morning,” I said.

Fearless’s face broke out into a friendly smile. “Fontanelle said it was okay. She said that she might even want a good watchdog
to protect her garage when she holdin’ stuff fo’ people.”

I got up and pulled on my pants. After using the toilet and washing up, I was almost ready for the day. Fearless was sitting
in the blue chair, so that left me the red one. They were both wooden and badly painted. My chair wobbled whenever I shifted.

“Tea?” Fearless asked me.

“Since when do you drink tea?”

“My auntie Leigh Lenore used to drink tea with lemon every mornin’.”

“What’s that got to do with you?” I asked.

“In that jail cell I used to think how much I missed Leigh. I really loved her, and that made me think about tea. You want
some?”

I took the tea but turned down the lemon.

“I bought milk,” Fearless said.

“What did Latham say?” I asked.

“I think it was Man. Jam. Manjam,” Fearless said. “Jamman. It was the name of somebody or something, I’m pretty sure.”

“You really think so? All it sounded like was a cough to me.”

“I listened to a lotta dyin’ men, Paris. The trick is you got to keep your heart open. You got to listen wit’ your heart.
That’s the trick.”

The tea, from the cracked pottery crock that Fearless had found on some shelf, was hot and made me feel good. I let my eyes
close for a moment, which was a mistake because William Grove’s death stare came up in my mind.

I sat up quickly and said, “Let’s get over to Milo’s.”

“
SO WHAT YOU THINK
we got here, Paris?” Milo Sweet asked me.

We were sitting in his office, listening to the gentle clucking of hens through the heating vents. Loretta was there and so
was Fearless, but the discussion was between me and Milo.

“I don’t know, man,” I said. “I mean really — I don’t know.”

“One always knows something,” the bailbondsman replied. “It’s just that we don’t know it all. What is it that we
do
know?”

I got his meaning and so tried to think. Sometimes I find thinking out loud is the best way to solve a problem. Of course,
I’ve also found that thinking out loud is the best way to get yourself into trouble too.

“Well,” I said. “We know that there are people, white people, looking for a bond that Sol Tannenbaum gave to Leon through
Fanny and Elana for protection in the joint.”

Milo nodded. Fearless sat back and laced his fingers behind his neck. Loretta let her eyes run up and down his long, strong
body.

“We know there’s a real bond because we saw it.”

Again Milo nodded.

“We know that Leon was after Elana, but then they were together, that there was a white man at the Pine Grove Hotel who met
with Latham and Elana probably about the bond. Maybe he even has the bond now. Maybe he’s the one with the money. If that’s
true, then Elana’s long gone. There’s another white man, John Manly, he said, who knew that Sol wasn’t home. He wanted to
talk to Fanny in the worst way, but he was probably just a real-estate agent who heard about Sol somehow and thought he might
find someone who needed to sell off their house for hospital bills. And then there’s the little old white man named Zev Minor,
who came to their house and opened the front door without ringing the bell. Latham is dead. William Grove is dead. Fanny Tannenbaum
is dead. My bookstore done burned, and Sol is in the hospital — and it’s him probably that stole the money in the first place.
And, oh yeah, whatever money there is, it’s between ten thousand francs and ten million dollars.”

“Shouldn’t you just drop it?” Loretta Kuroko said.

“What’s that, Loretta?” Milo asked. He didn’t sound angry or brusque at his secretary for interrupting our talk. He was sincerely
interested in her opinion.

“A policeman is dead, Mr. Sweet. A cop. They can come and take you away over that, take you away for good.”

Fearless sat up. I began drumming my fingers on Milo’s desk.

“But he was a crooked cop,” Milo said. “The newspaper didn’t even identify him as an officer. You know somebody’s hidin’ somethin’
behind that. And this is real money too.”

“Anyway,” Fearless added. “We didn’t shoot him.”

“Why would any’a these people burn down your store, Paris?” Milo asked. He blew out a thick cloud of cigar smoke.

“Man as mean as Leon Douglas, he might burn the muthahfuckah down just outta spite,” I said.

“Maybe it was an accident,” the ex-lawyer suggested.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Theodore said that the police thought it was started with gasoline. But I should probably check
that out anyway. I mean, maybe somebody saw something.”

Milo nodded.

“But what I wanna know,” I continued, “is why should we even be talkin’ ’bout this? I mean, the bond is gone, and we don’t
even know who has it. It could be Elana, it could be the man Fearless saw running down the alley. And whoever that was, it
might be somebody in on it or just some bum got scared when he heard shots.”