At three minutes after nine I crossed the street to Bradford. Looking both ways many times before reaching the opposite side, I noticed the French café twice. The second view of the silhouetted chicken set off a bell in my head.
“Mr. Minton,” Bradford said, rising as I approached him.
“Mr. Bradford.” I stuck out my hand.
We shook and sat down side by side on the park bench.
There was the café again.
“So, Mr. Minton,” Bradford said. “You have information for me.”
“It’s a nice morning, isn’t it?” I said.
“Why yes,” he replied with a friendly smile.
I’m sure he thought that I wanted to impose some decorum on our meeting, when really I was stalling for time. The café disturbed me, though I had no idea why. I had never been on that street as far as I remembered. But still there was a vague apprehension.
“I like this spot,” Bradford continued. “It reminds me of my younger days in Paris, before the war.”
It was him saying my name, that’s what did it. My name, the capital of France, the country where people spoke French, where the term chicken would be translated poulet—or to the unenlightened, pull lay.
“You lived in Europe?” I asked.
“Yes. I was the assistant to Parnell Wexler, Maestro’s uncle, in the thirties. I had a small apartment on the Left Bank and walked down the Seine to work every morning.”
“I hear that the weather is terrible in Paris,” I said. “My friend Fearless spent six months there, on and off, after they threw out the Germans. He said that he didn’t see the sunshine again until he was back in the U.S.”
“It’s a glorious town,” Bradford said, the nostalgia in his voice deepening his Australian accent. “Beyond weather concerns. The art and architecture, the people and the language, are the very top of human potential.”
He was a white man and he had an accent. Maybe Charlotta didn’t know any accents but the ones that Mexicans had. Maybe the word Mexican meant accent to her.
“What’s your first name, Bradford? You know, if we’re going to be working together. We might as well be on a first-name basis. You can call me Paris.”
“Bradford is my first name, Paris,” he said easily. “Bradford Craighton.”
“Well, Brad, I can hear how much you love Paris, not me but the city,” I said. “Must be great now you’re goin’ back there in style.”
Bradford turned his head slowly, as if he really didn’t want to see what I had become there next to him.
“Come again?”
“You ever meet a guy named Timmerman?” I asked.
“Timmerman? What is his first name?”
“Theodore.”
“No. I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”
“Think hard, Brad. He’s the man that called you after he pulled your number off a man that he had just gave a heart attack. He didn’t know it, but he really wanted to speak to Maestro, but it was your number he called, your private line.”
“I, I, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Tall white guy, ugly, likes the color brown in his wardrobe,” I said, pretending to jog his memory. “You sent him off to look for a book.”
“What book is that?”
When he didn’t want more details about the murder I knew my suspicions were true.
“I don’t know what it’s about but it’s real old, over two hundred years. Winifred’s family prizes that one handwritten manuscript over all their other possessions.”
“I don’t know anything about what you’re saying,” Bradford said.
“Yes you do. I know it. You know it. So let’s stop playin’ and get down to brass tacks.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Does this have anything to do with Lance or Minna?”
“Late last night, after I talked to you, this Timmerman snatched me and my friend Fearless. When he had the upper hand he let it slip about the book and a fellah named Craighton that he met on a park bench in front of a French café. He even told us the time you guys met. Ten-thirty.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why would he tell you all that?”
“Because I’m not a brave man, Mr. Craighton. He asked me what I knew and I threw your name at him, hoping to save myself from a beating.”
“You say that he had the upper hand?”
“My friend is tough. Theodore let his guard down and Fearless laid him low.”
“Where is this Timmerman now?”
“They admitted him to the hospital this morning. Fearless busted his leg for sure. His jaw too.”
“Why was he after you?”
“He wanted me to bring him to Winifred Fine. I think he had something for her.”
“What, what was that?”
“That’s enough from me for the moment,” I said. “That’s all I got to say until I hear somethin’ from you.”
“I already told you,” Bradford Craighton said, sounding almost like an Englishman, “I don’t know this Theodore Timmerman.”
“You ain’t never gonna get that book lyin’ like that, man. If you want to stay in the game you got to share.”
“What do you mean?”
“I got some information. You got some too. We share, and then once we trust each other, maybe then we can make a money deal.”
Bradford must have loved Paris more than he loved life and liberty. Paris was whispering in his ear, sweating through his pores. He stared at me so hard maybe he saw his beloved city in my stead.
“Timmerman called me,” he said at last. “Like you said.”
“Uh-huh. But Kit called you first, right?”
“Yes.”
“He said that he had the book,” I prompted.
“Yes.”
“Come on, Bradford. Don’t make this be like the dentist’s chair.”
“Mr. Mitchell called and said that he had the book, like you said. He wanted, he wanted money. Money I didn’t have.”
“Now how does a colored farmer come up with the private number of the personal secretary of one of the richest men in L.A.?”
Bradford wasn’t about to answer that question, so I did myself.
“Because,” I said, “Lance and Minna told you about the book. They came to you to get to their father. You were the go-between. But Kit fucked you up. He took the book for Bartholomew Perry and then kept it. BB was too conceited and gave Kit so much information that he thought that he could go out on his own. He cut out BB and Lance and Minna. But what he didn’t know was that cuttin’ them out put a definite crimp on you retiring to France.”
“You seem to know everything already,” Bradford said.
“Not why your boy Timmerman killed the Wexler kids,” I said. “Did you tell him to do that?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then why?”
“Do you have the book, Mr. Minton?”
“I don’t say a thing until you explain these murders to me,” I replied.
“Why? Why do you need to know?”
“There’s a legal term, Brad. It’s called accessory after the fact. If I try and make money from a crime I know has happened, then they can put me in jail for that crime.”
Our eyes met then. Two men, one white and one black, one an Australian and the other almost an American. Both of us aging a day for every minute that passed.
“I asked Timmerman to search Mr. Mitchell’s apartment for the book. He did not find it. Then we had the meeting here on this bench. He told me that he had been searching for Bartholomew Perry. I told him that Mr. Perry probably had the book or at least he had knowledge of where the book could be found. . . .” Bradford’s words trailed off there. He had taken me up to the door and now he was afraid to go through.
“So you sent Timmerman after Lance and Minna to try and get through to BB. You thought that maybe they were going to go to Winifred directly.” It was all supposition by then. I just needed to keep him talking.
“I didn’t know that he was going to kill them. I didn’t know what kind of man he was,” Bradford said, practicing for the trial. “I just told him to get in touch with them, to offer to help and see what they said.”
“Instead he tortured them to find out what the book was worth and then killed ’em to cut down on the number of potential partners in the crime.” I was flying by then.
“Now you know what I do,” Bradford said. “Can you help get the book?”
“I believe I can, my man. I believe I can.”
“How?”
“I’m pretty sure that Timmerman got the book somewhere on the way. When Fearless knocked him down I got his address and the key to his door. Fearless is there right now, lookin’ for the book. When he gets it I might consider sellin’ it to you.”
“Why?” Craighton asked suspiciously. “You could go to Maestro or Miss Fine yourself.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “I could tie the noose for the hangman too. No, no, brother. You find twenty-five thousand dollars and I’ll let you decide how to make money on the book.”
The light of hope was shining in Bradford Craighton’s eyes.
“That’s a lot of money,” he said.
“I bet you could pick it up in that pantry you paid me from,” I said. “Sell the book to whoever pays the most, return the loan, and fly off to gay Paree.”
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Mitchell,” the private secretary said. “I can raise seventy-five hundred dollars. That’s all I can lay my hands on.”
“I’ll meet you halfway and take twelve thousand five hundred.”
“Mr. Minton,” Bradford said with great reserve. “I have what I said. Take it and you will be safe and quite a bit richer. . . . Or take your chances with Mr. Wexler and his thugs.”
I stayed silent for a long moment to make him think that I was considering the options he presented. I wanted him to believe I might leave him hanging.
“Okay,” I said. “All right. I’ll take the seventy-five hundred, but you got to promise to keep my name out of it.”
“You have my word.”
Words: from the Emancipation Proclamation to the names on the ballots every election day, they had a life of their own and precious little to do with the truth.
43
IT’S FUNNY HOW YOU START OUT trying to help somebody else and end up in business for yourself. Fearless had come to me to find out why the cops were after him and what was going on with Leora and Son. That was all behind us, but there I was, still hanging in there, trying to make money out of thin air.
Bradford Craighton had gone into business for himself. Minna and Lance had come to him, the trusted family employee, and asked him to help make Maestro pay them for their crime. Bradford saw his chance. All those years working for the big man made him hungry for the real thing.
Paris is even more beautiful when you don’t have to walk to work every morning of your life.
But Kit took the book and called asking for more money than the down-at-heel secretary could raise. When Kit said that he’d go directly to the Fine family, Craighton thought that he’d lost his one chance. Then came Teddy Timmerman. But Timmerman also betrayed him. He killed the kids, killed Kit, and now Bradford was out on a limb. But there was the slight hope that he could still get the book.
The last two threats to my security were Maestro Wexler and the weasel Bradford. The master wanted to find the killer of his children and he looked to me as a guide. Of course I couldn’t very well turn over his secretary, because then I could be implicated in the secretary’s crime. And Bradford would need me out of the way sooner or later because I knew about his crimes.
I called the Seventy-seventh Street Precinct from a phone booth on Central Avenue.
“Police department,” a white woman answered.
“Sergeant Rawlway, please.”
“One moment.”
I waited through a series of clicks and buzzes. Finally there came another ring.
“Sergeant Rawlway speaking.”
“Good morning, sergeant. This is Paris Minton.”
“Oh. Hello, Mr. Minton. You’re a little late if you wanted to turn in your friend. We already found him.”
“It’s not that, sir. I know you talked to Fearless because he told me about it. He said that you were looking for a man named Kit Mitchell.”
“Mr. Jones really shouldn’t be discussing police business.”
“Maybe not, sir, but do you think it’s a coincidence that another man showed up at my door just yesterday asking me if I knew the whereabouts of Fearless or Kit?”
“What man?”
“A guy named Theodore Timmerman. At least that’s what he said his name was. He gave me a card with a number on it. Do you think that’s important?”
FEARLESS WAS AT MY HOUSE when I got there, shuffling a deck of cards. He was stretched out on the front room sofa—playing solitaire in a room full of books.
“Hey, Fearless —”
“I got bad news, Paris,” he said. “Somebody stole our money, man.”
“What money?”
“That we had in the trunk’a her car.”
“What about the book?”
“Book? Who cares about a book when we lost almost three thousand dollars and that emerald necklace?”
“Did they leave the book?”
“It was in the same bag as the money, man,” Fearless said. “They took it all.”
I sat down. If there hadn’t been a chair behind me I would have fallen to the floor.
“No,” was all I said.
“I know, Paris,” Fearless said. “I know.”
“Who would have known to take the money?”
“Ambrosia took the car to Tito’s Car Wash. I had driven it up into the Santa Monica mountains and it got kinda streaked. She was just gettin’ it clean if I wanted to drive around some more. You know at Tito’s they do the whole car. The trunk was wide open the whole time. They got at least twenty people workin’ there. And there’s a big sign sayin’ not to leave no valuables in the trunk.”
Up to that moment the loss of the Fine family chronicle was the worst defeat in my life. I forgot about the man who died at my hands and even the danger still posed by Maestro and his scheming secretary. I forgot about the police and their constant threat to my liberty. All that was left was the loss of more money than most Negro families made in an entire life of labor.
“Paris?”
“I’m goin’ to bed, Fearless,” I said.
He said something but I didn’t hear it. I scaled the stairs to my illegal loft. I don’t even remember getting into the bed. And I didn’t have one dream that I can remember. It was just as if I had died. That’s how far I’d fallen.
I DIDN’T FEEL HIM SHAKE ME but he must have. He’d stayed downstairs for nearly twenty hours, standing guard over my despair. When I opened my eyes Fearless was just sitting there in a chair beside my bed. He’d undressed me and covered me with blankets and a sheet.
“Hey, Paris. Feel better?”
“Ungh,” I said. “Ugh.”
A wave of nausea went through me and I got out of the bed and rushed down to the toilet. My head was aching and one of my nostrils was clogged. I’d lost a fortune because of a car wash attendant who would never know the value of the book he stole.
Fearless was at the kitchen table when I got there. He’d made pancakes with hot maple syrup and country sausage.
“Anybody call?” I asked.
“I took the phone off the hook, man. You needed your sleep.”
“Well, I better put it back. I got work to do.”
My first job was to read the morning paper.
Kit Mitchell had been found. He’d been dead for at least a week. There were signs that he’d been tortured before he died, but the cause of death was not immediately known.
Maybe, after I died and if I went to heaven, the celestial host would give me a medal for ending Theodore Timmerman’s rampage on earth.
> RAWLWAY AND MORRAIN CAME BY at about five. Fearless went upstairs before I answered the door.
“Sergeant, officer,” I said in greeting at the door.
“May we come in, Mr. Minton?” Sergeant Rawlway asked.
“Sure can.”
They took seats this time and sat forward with clasped hands and elbows on their knees.
“We found some suspicious evidence at the house of the man you called us about,” Rawlway said.
“Oh yeah? What about him?”
The hairy cop just shook his head.
“Well,” I said, hesitating, “was there something else I could do for you?”
“What did you say his name was again?” Morrain asked in a surprisingly deferential tone.
“Timmerman,” I said. “Theodore Timmerman. Why?”
“His phone records and other papers seem to be a bit confused.”
“How do you mean?”
“He went by half a dozen names. And there were some very incriminating materials in his garage.”
“Really?”
“Just what did he say to you when he was here?” Rawlway asked. He took out the tiny notebook and small ballpoint pen made to scale.
“He asked if I knew a man named Fearless,” I said, looking up at the ceiling as if I had to think about my answer. “Then he asked about Kit. I told him that I didn’t know but I heard that Fearless worked for a man named Kit for a while but that was over now. He wanted to know Fearless’s address and I told him that I didn’t know. That’s when it got kinda strange.”
“How do you mean strange?”
“He put his hand on my forearm and squeezed it hard. Then he asked about Fearless again. It was as if he was testin’ me. You know his eyes were scary, and so I was happy that I passed.”
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