“How would BB know where you kept the necklace?”
“He and my niece, Leora, used to play with it when they were children. They both knew where all my jewelry was.”
“So what you want is the necklace and not your nephew at all.”
“That’s right. But I want to speak to Bartholomew, to tell him that I no longer consider him a member of our family.”
“Uh-huh. So if me and Fearless get the necklace and make it so you have your chat with BB, then we’re clear?”
“Certainly, Mr. Minton.”
“BB seemed to think that you would be willing to commit violence against him if he didn’t return your property,” I said as a primer for further discussion.
“That is ridiculous,” Winifred L. Fine said. “Violence is the last resort of the desperate.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let us go out there and see what we can see.”
I touched Fearless’s arm to indicate that it was time for our departure.
“One more thing,” Winifred Fine said. “What about the man who shot at you? Is he still after me?”
“Don’t you worry about him, ma’am,” Fearless said. “He came down with a chest cold and now he’s laid up for the season.”
30
FEARLESS DROVE US DOWN the dirt road toward the street.
“Where to now, Paris?” he asked me.
“I don’t know. We could wait for BB to call us and then ask him how a twelve-thousand-dollar piece of jewelry’s gonna be fifty thousand, or maybe what the Wexler kids had to do with it.”
“You think he’d tell us that?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe if we threatened to drag him out here if he didn’t.”
We were approaching Baloona Creek when a woman dressed in a long formal gown and carrying a small brown bag ran in front of Ambrosia’s car. Fearless hit the brakes and swerved to miss her. When she came up to the window I couldn’t speak for a moment because of the shock of almost running Rose Fine down.
“You okay?” Fearless asked.
“Yeah,” I said before realizing that he was talking to the crazy woman.
“Help me get away from here,” she cried desperately.
“Hop in,” Fearless said.
He jumped out and ushered her in through the rear door. Then he got back in the driver’s seat and drove off as if he were a chauffeur and I was his assistant.
“Fearless?”
“Yeah, Paris?”
“What are we doin’?”
“I don’t know. Where you wanna go, Miss Fine?”
“Anyplace not near that house, young man,” she said. “Anywhere I can get away from them crazy people.”
Fearless nodded slightly and continued on. I guess he figured that no matter which way he drove he’d be meeting her request.
“Miss Fine,” I said.
“Yes, young man.”
“I’m Paris. And I’d like to know why you want to run away from your own home.”
“Because it’s all gonna come out now. All of it. Winifred won’t be able to stop the walls of Jericho. No she won’t. But she’s just willful enough to believe that she can.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“Everything we have will be squandered, stolen, and burned in hell,” she said. “Too many secrets, too many lies.”
“What kind of secrets?” I asked.
“I was a prisoner in there. No money and no car. And now not even no love.”
I had very little confidence in the mad-eyed woman’s ability to understand or communicate the truth. I had no idea what Fearless planned to do with her. But there we were, so I played the game as if I were privy to the rules.
“Who was Bartholomew’s mother?” I asked.
“That would be Ethel,” Rose said. She was staring out of the window, smiling at the passing strawberry farms as if they were strange new sights in a distant land.
“She’s the one that started the beauty business?”
“No,” Rose said, turning her cracked grin on me. “Our mother started the beauty product company. She named it after Ethel because Ethel was her firstborn and her favored girl. Ethel was the oldest, then came me, and then Winnie.”
“And so you all owned the business equally?”
“Oh yes,” Rose said. “Mama made sure that we were always equal. She had her favorites, but blood is blood.”
“And Ethel was the favorite child?”
“Oh no,” Rose assured me. “It’s always a boy that has his mother’s heart.”
“You have a brother?”
“Of course we do. I thought you knew. Oscar is our brother.”
“The butler?” Fearless asked.
“It’s his own fault,” she said, reciting a well-rehearsed speech. “When he was a young man he insisted to be paid for his part of the beauty supply company. We bought him out and he lost it all inside of three years. Winnie told him if he wanted to come back he had to work for us.”
“She made him a butler?”
“That was his idea,” Rose said. “Yes sir. He didn’t want to have anything else to do with the outside world. No business, no meetin’s, no bein’ in charge’a anything responsible. All he wanted was to work at home and hide away from how stupid he was. We didn’t want him to be our servant, but Winnie said that he had to work if he wanted to eat our food.”
“I know that,” Fearless intoned.
“Why did you run away?” I asked, hoping the question would catch her by surprise.
“Because you had a car and kind eyes.”
“You mean you’ve been waiting for a chance to get out of there?”
“Oscar thinks he’s slick,” Rose answered, “with all his sneakin’ and overhearin’. But if you have a hidey-hole or a spare phone in the nook, then the spy might just be spied on. Yes sir.”
“What did Oscar say to make you want to run away?”
“I’ll never tell.”
“What about a man named Brown?” I asked, switching tracks as fast as she.
“What about him?” Rose had no love lost there.
“Is he some other relation?”
“Oh no. No no no no. Brown is somethin’ else altogether.”
“And what is that, Miss Fine?”
The elder woman in the fine evening gown sat back and sighed. “I don’t think I want to answer any more questions, young man.”
“That’s okay, ma’am,” Fearless said. “You just sit back and I’ll take you someplace where you can figure out what you want to do now that you’re looking for a new home.”
That stopped any more inquiries for a while. But I didn’t mind. Fearless was probably right. Rose Fine didn’t have a strong grip on reality, and too many questions might have pushed her out of orbit completely.
The elder Fine sister stretched out on the backseat and was snoring quicker than Fearless Jones.
I DIDN’T WANT TO TALK on the drive because I worried that Rose Fine might have just been pretending to sleep. Fearless, I was sure, remained silent to let her catch up on her rest.
“Must be hard livin’ someplace you hate,” he whispered after quite a while. “That’s why I’m never jealous’a what another man got.”
“Where are you plannin’ to go, Fearless?”
“I figure out to Mama’s,” he said. “You know Milo might be some help askin’ Miss Fine questions.”
“I can ask questions with the best of ’em, Fearless. We don’t need Milo.”
“You ask okay but you don’t have the kinda manners that refined women like Winifred and Rose is used to,” Fearless informed me. “Your questions sound like sandpaper but Milo feel like shammy cloth up in their ears.”
I didn’t argue. If Fearless and I worked for a corporation I would have been his boss’s boss’s boss. But in the world of hearts and minds I was more like his dog.
“TRISTAN,” HIS MOTHER SQUEALED. We had come to her little home on Elm off Paulsen. “And Paris. Oh, baby, it’s so good to see
you.”
Gina Jones was almost as tall as her son and twice his girth. She wrapped me in an embrace that was somewhat like the ocean—she rocked back and forth and buoyed me up on soft strength that could crush stone, given time.
“Hi, Mama Jones,” I said.
Fearless kissed his mother and said, “This here is Rose Fine, Mama. She had to leave her home and we didn’t know where to take her so we brought her here.”
“Isn’t that a beautiful gown?” Gina said.
Rose grinned broadly and clasped her gloved hands together.
Fearless carried her tiny suitcase.
“Come in, everybody,” Gina said.
She led us into a small parlor that had been set up to make the most possible out of the space she had. Against adjoining walls were two coral-colored sofas that came together at a right angle, with an extremely small walnut table set where they met. There were two wooden chairs near the door to the kitchen and an overhead light with a blue-and-yellow shade instead of a lamp that might take up table or floor space.
Milo Sweet—fully dressed in tan suit, blue vest, and red tie—was seated in one of the chairs holding a small china cup in one hand and an equally delicate saucer in the other. He stood up, put the cup and saucer on the chair, and then approached us.
“Paris, Fearless,” he said. Then he laid eyes upon our Victorian charge.
“Miss Fine,” she said. “Rose Fine.”
She held out the back of her hand and Milo actually kissed the glove.
“Milo,” Fearless said.
“We have things to talk about,” I added.
“Not until you all come into the kitchen and sit for something to drink and eat,” Gina Jones said.
She was from another era, a time in the country when people traveled by foot or horse-drawn buggy. Whenever anyone showed up at the door, it had to be after a long and dusty journey.
I felt like I had been a long way. A drink and some lunch sounded like just the right thing.
31
THE KITCHEN WAS A BIG SQUARE ROOM with a small stove and an icebox set in the corner next to a big-basin sink. The rest of the room was dominated by a large square table with a yellow linoleum top. There were more than enough chrome chairs with red vinyl cushions for Gina’s guests. After hefty meatloaf sandwiches she served us lemonade and pound cake with marmalade and strawberry preserves.
Milo brought out a flask of vodka for the men to lace their drinks. Rose and Gina spoke for a long time about things like silver thread and salad spoons, rhubarb pie and quilting circles. Every time Milo or I tried to bring up business we were gently shushed by Fearless’s mother.
After forty-five minutes or so Rose asked if she could take a short nap. Gina led the millionaire off to her bedroom and stayed with her for a while.
“What you boys got?” Milo said as soon as they were gone.
I told him almost everything except about the money we’d been paid already. Milo hadn’t really hired us and so I didn’t see why he should be cut in on our gain.
“So all you got to do is get the pendant and Miss Fine will be happy,” Milo said, finishing our story with his own happy ending.
“Milo,” I said. “People are dead here. Big-time people. People who don’t give a shit about some Negro farmer’s treasure. It don’t make sense.”
“Who cares?” he said. “We didn’t kill anybody. We weren’t anywhere near it. All we got to worry about is keepin’ Winifred Fine happy.”
“That’s all you got to care about, man,” I said. “I’m worried about sleepin’ in my bed without somebody waitin’ outside in the street with a pistol in his hand.”
“Don’t be a fool, Paris. Nobody cares about some niggah own a used-book bookstore. They worried about property and money. White-people money, not your little change.”
“Maybe that man beatin’ on your ass didn’t get through to you, Miles,” I said. “But these people serious out here. They will hurt anybody that might even be a little bit in the way. That white man lost his children. I wouldn’t be too quick to mess in with the man he think killed ’em.”
Milo’s eyes were glazed over by the hope for money and power. He wasn’t listening to me. Neither was Fearless as far as I could see. The World War II killer was leaning back in his chair with a smile on his face.
“What you grinnin’ at, fool?” I asked him.
“It’s nice to see Mama with a lady her own age. They could sit and talk all day long, I bet. That’s real nice.”
“Fearless, we got trouble here.”
“What you want to do about it, Paris?” He wasn’t being negative. It was just a question. If I said to go out and roll a stone up a hill he would have pushed up his sleeves and done so, smiling about his mother all the way.
“Milo, you could help,” I said.
“How?” he asked.
“Me and Fearless got a spy might know a guy knows Kit. His name is Honeyboy, and we told him to call your answerin’ service to tell us where we could catch up with him.”
Milo called his service. Honeyboy had left a message earlier in the day. He said that we could find him at an address on Downey Road in East L.A.
Milo had no idea that Honeyboy was really Bartholomew Perry, the man he was looking for. It gave me a great deal of pleasure fooling him like that.
THE ADDRESS THAT BB LEFT FOR US was across the street from the New Calvary Cemetery, a fairly big graveyard in the middle of East L.A. By the time we got there it was closing in on five-thirty. The house was large and painted blue-green with a dark green trim. There were eighteen stairs to a front porch that ran the whole length of the front of the house.
Fearless took the stairs three at a time, so I lagged behind him. At least that’s what I pretended. New places in serious times always slowed my pace.
Fearless was knocking by the time I had reached him. With all those strange stairs and a graveyard at my back, I felt a shiver as I caught up. So I wasn’t surprised when the door opened and a man pointed a gun at us.
I wasn’t surprised, but I was terrified enough to lose my senses.
I fell hard to the floor, rolled, and then tried to rise to my feet. But the fear in my heart was like in one of those dreams where you try to run but you can’t do it, you can’t run because the fear is an anchor in your chest. I rolled on my back and put up my hands, hoping that somehow I could survive the barrage. But what I saw was that Fearless had moved in the opposite direction, grabbed hold of Theodore Timmerman’s gun hand, and delivered a devastating right hook to the jaw of the man who had tried to kill us two times in three days.
Timmerman went down and Fearless disarmed him. Then my friend turned to me, smiling and holding out a helping hand.
“I, I’m sorry, Fearless,” I said.
“For what, boy?”
“I didn’t mean to run. I didn’t even know that I was doin’ it till I was on my back.”
“Lucky you did, Paris. Teddy here thought you had somethin’, so he turned your way. And you know, baby, you better not ever turn away from me if you wanna live.”
TIMMERMAN WASN’T DEAD—at least not quite. His shirt was open, so we could see the nasty bruise on his chest from the brick Fearless had thrown. His jaw was swelling now too.
The house had a professional look to it. There was a living room to the left that might well have been an office. There were dark-stained oak furnishings and white curtains that were closed. Fearless set Timmerman down in a padded oak chair.
“Why ain’t you in a hospital, man?” he asked Ted.
“Fuck you,” the would-be killer replied.
“No, really, man,” Fearless went on. “You got somethin’ wrong there. It ain’t gonna heal without some help.”
The white man’s sallow chest was bruised blue, green, and black. It was like a large dark cloud hovering under his pale skin.
“What you doin’ here?” I asked.
“Fuck you.”
“Where’s BB?”
&n
bsp; Timmerman said nothing.
There came a rumble that might have been pounding and a voice that made sounds but no discernible words.
“Go on, Paris,” Fearless said. “I’ll stay with your friend.”
There was a hallway at the back of the room. It was long and also more professional looking than homey. There were no paintings or any sign of somebody living there. After going twenty feet or so I came to a door. The sounds were coming from there.
Still it was just muffled pounding and a muffled voice.
I turned to go back to Fearless. I was going to tell him that I found the door where the noise was coming from. But I stopped halfway. Looking back at the door, I finally convinced myself to do something to redeem my pride after panicking on the front porch.
I went to the door and quickly pulled it open so as not to lose heart.
Opening doors wasn’t lucky for me during that period.
I thought it was the Mummy who fell out on top of me—if the Mummy weighed two hundred and twenty-five pounds. All tied up in sheets, bleeding, and yelling through the gag he wore. It took me a few moments to realize that the monster wasn’t attacking me but struggling to get free from the bonds. It took a moment more to recognize Bartholomew thrashing and screaming under the knots of gauze.
Before I grasped the situation I yelped. It wasn’t a scream of terror or even a shout. At least I could be proud of my reserve.
Regardless of the dignity I maintained in my mind, Fearless came running with the wounded white man in tow. I looked up at him, on my back for the second time in less than ten minutes, and said, “I found him.”
“MOTHAHFUCKAH COME UP TO MY DOOR and pointed his gun at me,” Bartholomew was telling us.
The skin over both eyes was so swollen from the beatings that he was barely recognizable. He was bleeding and had lost a tooth. Timmerman might have been hurting but he was still dangerous.
“He kept askin’ who was lookin’ for me. I didn’t say nuthin’ and he just started beatin’ on my ass.”
“And so you give us up so he could beat on us too,” I added.
“No I didn’t. I had already called that number, all I said was that you was gonna call me. That’s all,” BB said. “You know he had me so tied up I couldn’t even breathe in there.”
Fear Itself Page 17