Fearless Jones (22 page)

“It wasn’t no bum,” Fearless added.

“How you know that?” Milo asked.

“ ’Cause Latham was farther up the alley. He was runnin’ an’ I don’t see Latham runnin’ from one man. He was tough. There
was two men after him, and the one who got away was the one who kilt the cop and tore open the purse.”

“You don’t know that,” I said, but I wasn’t sure that he was wrong.

“If Grove’s partner has the bond, then it’s over,” Milo said.

“We don’t know if that was his partner,” I said. “And we don’t know if he got the bond. Elana took off in Latham’s car. She
lit outta there wit’out lookin’ back. Maybe she got it.”

“Maybe,” Milo said. “But that’s an
if
even in the best light. The real way to the money is this Tannenbaum man. Maybe if
we went to him and told him what happened, he’d give us somethin’.”

We turned to Fearless then.

“What?” he complained.

“You the one he likes,” I said.

“I told him that I’d protect his wife, and you see what that did?”

“You couldn’t help that, son,” the suddenly paternal Milo Sweet said.

“He’s right, Fearless,” I added. “Sol’d want you to tell him about what’s happenin’. He would. You don’t have to tell him
about Fanny.”

“You think he don’t know? You think he don’t know that his wife for forty-some years ain’t comin’ to the hospital t’see ’im?
He knows. But you right, I should go there. I should go there an’ make sure nobody else come into that room.”

“You’ll ask him about the bond?” Milo suggested.

“I’ll tell ’im what I know,” Fearless said. “And then he can tell me what he wants.”

“I’ll go back over to the bookstore,” I said. “Maybe somebody knows about the fire, if it was set like the cops and the firemen
suspected.”

“Okay,” Milo said. “Okay, you guys go out and do what you think is right, what you think is gonna get somethin’. But remember,
this is money here. Money. Don’t go out there actin’ like this is everyday goin’ to work or throwin’ some dice. This is the
big time. You go out there and your life is on the line. So try an’ bring somethin’ back wichya.”

I was moved by Milo’s pep talk, but I doubt if Fearless was. From the few political books I had read I knew Fearless was a
natural-born anarchist. If he had what he needed, he thought of himself as a rich man; if he had less, well, that would have
to do.

“What you gonna do, Milo?” I asked our partner.

“Ask a few questions. Get a few lies. Ask somethin’ else and then see what don’t jibe.” He was a poet of the lawyer’s caste.

FEARLESS, MILO, AND I WERE
all set to go, Fearless to ride shotgun on Sol’s hospital bed, and Milo to gather information in his own secret ways.

Milo’s gas tank ran on schemes. He was into clandestine realestate deals, small-business investments, and some more shady
enterprises. He was serious about everything he did, and most projects he got involved with, I felt, had a good chance of
making it. But Milo was impatient. He wanted to see the money. He wanted a Cadillac and a fat Cuban cigar. After a few months
he’d always start pushing. He’d expand before the business showed a profit or sell out for another, more promising scheme
before the one he was into had a chance to grow.

When I first met Milo I wanted to do business with him. I was always asking his advice and suggesting that he take me in as
a
partner. But as time passed and I saw how he never got past the first stages, I was happy that he was too jealous to let anybody
else in on his deals.

So when Milo left for one of his
clandestine
negotiations, I didn’t expect much. I had business of my own, business in which failure was not an easy pill to swallow.

“Paris,” Loretta said to me as I was following her boss out the door.

“Yeah?”

“Hold on a minute, will you?”

The door shut behind Milo, and I went back to Miss Kuroko’s desk.

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of Milo,” she said hesitantly. “You know how he gets when he thinks that he’s being
taken advantage of.”

“What’d I do now?” I asked.

“It’s the phone calls.”

“What calls?”

“The women.”

“Oh shit,” I said. “Here we go. Women got a whiff that Fearless is over here?”

“They’re calling for you too, Paris,” Loretta said, as if I knew it all along. “And you know how Milo feels about using his
office for personal affairs.”

“Women? What women? Ain’t no women callin’ on me.”

“Charlotte Bingham,” Loretta said.

“Who?”

“She said you knew her from the Charles Diner.”

“The Charles…” I stopped when I remembered the young woman with the scar. “Oh. Uh, did she leave a number?”

Loretta handed me a small orange slip of paper with the waitress’s information.

“And what about this Gella Greenspan calling for Fearless?” the secretary asked.

“Who? Oh.”

“You don’t have to pretend, Paris.”

“I’m not pretendin’, Loretta. I can’t remember all these names. Gella is the woman whose aunt got killed.”

“Oh.” An urgency entered the woman’s tone. “She said that it was important to get in touch with Fearless, but I thought…”

“I’m sure it’s okay. Just gimme that number too.”

I went to Milo’s desk and dialed Gella Greenspan’s number.

“Hello,” a timid voice said upon answering the phone.

“Gella?”

“Mr. Jones?”

“No, it’s Paris. Paris Minton — the one who was with Fearless.”

“Oh. Is he with you now?”

“No. No, he went out to visit your uncle. He was worried after what happened to Fanny and decided to make sure Sol is safe.”

“Oh. Yes. Yes, I guess that’s more important.”

“More important than what?” I figured that the distraught young woman wanted to see what came after the first two kisses.
I hoped to head her off before we got sidetracked into some kind of domestic mess.
A kiss could be like a loaded gun,
Fearless’s words came back to me.

“It’s Morris.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“I don’t know. The police came to ask questions about Fanny
and the black man who stabbed Sol, and Morris yelled at them that they had to find him and put him in jail. I never saw him
so upset.”

“We’re all upset. Damn, I haven’t been this worried since the bogeyman used to live under my bed.”

“I know,” she said. “I know. But it was more than that with Mo.”

“What do you mean?”

“He stayed in bed a whole day. He just lay there in the dark, looking up at the ceiling. He wouldn’t talk to me.”

“He wouldn’t eat or anything?”

“When he went for water, he didn’t turn off the faucet, he didn’t even flush the toilet. And then I was in the kitchen, and
I heard his car start in the driveway. When I got to the front door he was already going down the street. I called for him,
but he didn’t hear me.” The desolation in Gella’s voice reminded me of her lost European family.

“Was he that close to your aunt?”

“He liked her, but she didn’t have much use for him. Uncle Sol and Aunt Fanny liked people with more of a sense of humor.
But Morris always wanted to do things for them. When Sol was in prison, he would go over and take care of things. If something
broke, he fixed it, and if there was some problem with the bills, he took care of it.” She paused and then said, “Do you think
Fearless might come over and help me look for him after he sees to Uncle Sol?”

The thought of Fearless holding that awkward girl and then Morris stumbling in was like a train wreck in my mind.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I could come by if he’s too busy. Maybe, yeah, I could come over.”

“Okay,” she said, accepting second best.

“But first I got to look into a couple’a things. First that, and then I’ll come by.”

“Okay. But please hurry.”

“If Morris comes back, you go up and sit with him when you can, okay?” I said. “I know it doesn’t seem like he notices you,
but he does. He knows you’re there, but he’s just too sad to say it.”

“Thank you,” Gella said, sighing. “Thank you for that.”

We hung up on that high note, but I knew that she was still scared.

“Is she okay?” Loretta asked.

“Oh yeah. She just needed to talk to somebody.”

MILO HAD AGREED
to take Fearless to retrieve Layla’s car from the street in front of the Las Palmas, where we’d left it when we took off
after Latham and Grove were shot. Fearless had called Layla to apologize for keeping the car for so long. She was mad at first,
but after a few minutes of Fearless saying he was sorry, she let him keep it a while longer. I left Milo’s place in my own
car. That felt pretty good, me sitting behind the wheel, not on anybody’s tail and nobody on mine. That was fine. I drove
over to the burnt-out lot that had been my bookstore only a few days before. Fontanelle was right. The few standing timbers
of the frame had been torn down and dragged off. The lot had been raked so clean that it almost looked as if it had been swept.

I went inside expecting to see Theodore Wally in his blue T-shirt and green apron standing behind the candy-crowded counter.
But instead, an older white man stood there. It was Antonio, the owner. Antonio had a bulbous face with a pencil-thin
mustache that didn’t fit at all. You got the idea that he grew the lip hair when he was a younger, thinner man.

“Can I help you?” he asked in a tone that was anything but helpful. Antonio had seen me a few dozen times since I had been
his neighbor. He took my money, gave me change. But he never recognized me, never learned my name.

“Where’s Theodore?”

“He doesn’t work here anymore.”

“Say what?”

He looked away from me instead of answering.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“What?”

“I’m lookin’ for Wally.”

“I told you —”

“Listen, man. Theodore has been workin’ in this store for more than ten years. He worked here four days ago. Now I know he
didn’t just disappear.”

“He does not work here anymore,” the store owner said as if he were talking to an idiot. “He quit his job this morning. Just
wrote a note and locked the door behind him. He didn’t even call. So now I have to come here every day because there is nobody
else. If you know him so well, then you must know where he lives, so why don’t you go there and leave me in peace?”

I thought,
Oh my achin’ back,
but I said, “My name’s Paris Minton.”

Antonio gave me that blank look that said,
Don’t know you and don’t care to.

“I had the bookstore next door.”

“Oh,” he said, nodding. “So it was you. You’re the reason I don’t have my insurance.”

“What?”

“I got damage,” he said, the hint of an Italian accent coming through. “I called the insurance company and they send a man
down here. He finds violations. Violations and he says that they won’t pay and that my insurance is canceled.”

“I didn’t make your violations, man. I lost my whole store.”

“But you were illegal. You slept there. You had a hot plate, maybe. Because you were careless, they punish me, a real businessman.”

It was the
real businessman
crack that got to me. I mean, what did he think? Didn’t he realize that I was in business too? Maybe I wasn’t making big
money or anything like that, but I had regular hours and customers and fair prices. I was in business just like him. But that
wasn’t the time for a philosophical discussion on the nature of business.

“Did somebody say that the fire was caused by a hot plate?” I asked.

“They don’t know. Maybe a cigarette, they said. Or maybe something with the wires. One man said something about gasoline.”

“Are they investigating?”

Antonio had small eyes. Between the bulge of his forehead and the chubbiness of his cheeks, they seemed gleeful in an evil
sort of way. He homed those eyes in on me and said, “It wasn’t no more than an empty room. Why they want to investigate?”

I didn’t like what I was hearing. But I heard something even worse, something he didn’t mean to say. I didn’t like that either.

“Who cleaned off the lot next door?” I asked.

“How should I know? They were workmen. The landlords
over there had insurance too. But their insurance agents couldn’t see the violations you had.”

It was my turn to stare. I looked hard at the store owner. He took out a small green rag with which he began to wipe the small
space of the glass counter before him.

“Did the fire investigators come over here to talk to you?” I asked.

“Why would they?” he said, more defensive than angry.

I GOT BACK
in my car, uncertain whether I should go find Theodore or wait and take care of the business at hand. Finally I decided that
my worries over the store had to wait.

MESSENGER OF THE DIVINE
looked a lot different in daylight. The stucco bungalow it inhabited was pathetic and gray around the edges. The red velvet
curtains that had covered the picture window were now drawn back to reveal dozens of black men, women, and children crowded
together, dressed in their Easter best. The men wore black suits with white flowers in their lapels. The women wore dark dress
suits with fancy hats.

Recorded organ music issued through the open doors. I spied the coffin that stood up front. Before the coffin stood the elderly
African-featured man I had met a few nights before, Father Vincent la Trieste.

Father Vincent was in the middle of his baritone sermon when I entered.

“… they won’t let us have his body,” Vincent was saying. “No. They say they’re keepin’ it for the coroner to examine. But
we don’t care about them or their laws, do we, brothers and sisters?”

“No, Father. No,” was said by more than one.

“We know that the Lord called on Brother Grove. The Lord in his wisdom laid down his iron hand!”

“Preach,” someone said.

“Tell it,” another agreed.

“He laid down his iron hand for the mighty to tremble and the vermin to scurry away. But we are not afraid. No, no. We are
not afraid of bullets and knives, of policemen who bar our way or of doctors fool enough to believe that they hold the answers
of life and death in their hands. Only the Almighty has the power of life and death. Only the Almighty can reach out and snuff
out the flame of life as if it was no more than a matchstick.” Vincent held out his left hand, slowly closing it against a
powerful though unseen force. While he did this, he looked into the eyes of each man, woman, and child in the room. He was
God, and they were witnessing the miracle and the majesty of His terrible strength. The older man’s eyes were potent even
from the back of the room where I stood. They were potent, that is, until they lit on me. And then, for only a moment, they
switched to fear. He glanced quickly from side to side, and three large men turned their heads in my direction.