A Red Death
It’s 1953 in Red-baiting, blacklisting Los Angeles, a moral tar pit ready to swallow Easy Rawlins. Easy is out of “the hurting business” and into the housing (and the favor) business when a racist IRS agent nails him for tax evasion. FBI Special Agent Darryl T. Craxton offers to bail him out if he agrees to infiltrate the First African Baptist Church and spy on alleged communist union organizer Chaim Wenzler. That’s when the murders begin…
A RED DEATH
Walter Mosley
Easy Rawlins Series, Book 2
Copyright © 1991
by Walter Mosley
Dedication:
Dedicated to the Memory of
Alberta Jackson and Lillian Keller
with special thanks to
Daniel and Elizabeth Russell
— 1 —
I ALWAYS STARTED SWEEPING on the top floor of the Magnolia Street apartments. It was a three-story pink stucco building between Ninety-first Street and Ninety-first Place, just about a mile outside of Watts proper. Twelve units. All occupied for that month. I had just gathered the dirt into a neat pile when I heard Mofass drive up in his new ’53 Pontiac. I knew it was him because there was something wrong with the transmission, you could hear its high singing from a block away. I heard his door slam and his loud hello to Mrs. Trajillo, who always sat at her window on the first floor—best burglar alarm you could have.
I knew that Mofass collected the late rent on the second Thursday of the month; that’s why I chose that particular Thursday to clean. I had money and the law on my mind, and Mofass was the only man I knew who might be able to set me straight.
I wasn’t the only one to hear the Pontiac.
The doorknob to Apartment J jiggled and the door came open showing Poinsettia Jackson’s sallow, sorry face.
She was a tall young woman with yellowish eyes and thick, slack lips.
“Hi, Easy,” she drawled in the saddest high voice. She was a natural tenor but she screwed her voice higher to make me feel sorry for her.
All I felt was sick. The open door let the stink of incense from her prayer altar flow out across my newly swept hall.
“Poinsettia,” I replied, then I turned quickly away as if my sweeping might escape if I didn’t move to catch it.
“I heard Mofass down there,” she said. “You hear him?”
“I just been workin’. That’s all.”
She opened the door and draped her emaciated body against the jamb. The nightcoat was stretched taut across her chest. Even though Poinsettia had gotten terribly thin after her accident, she still had a large frame.
“I gotta talk to him, Easy. You know I been so sick that I cain’t even walk down there. Maybe you could go on down an tell’im that I need t’talk.”
“He collectin’ the late rent, Poinsettia. If you ain’t paid him all you gotta do is wait. He’ll be up here soon enough to talk to you.”
“But I don’t have it,” she cried.
“You better tell’im that,” I said. It didn’t mean anything, I just wanted to say the last word and get down to work on the second floor.
“Could you talk to him, Easy? Couldn’t you tell’im how sick I am?”
“He know how sick you are, Poinsettia. All he gotta do is look at you and he could tell that. But you know Mofass is business. He wants that rent.”
“But maybe you could tell him about me, Easy.”
She smiled at me. It was the kind of smile that once made men want to go out of their way. But Poinsettia’s fine skin had slackened and she smelled like an old woman, even with the incense and perfume. Instead of wanting to help her I just wanted to get away.
“Sure, I’ll ask ’im. But you know he don’t work for me,” I lied. “It’s the other way around.”
“Go on down there now, Easy,” she begged. “Go ask ’im to let me slide a month or two.”
She hadn’t paid a penny in four months already, but it wouldn’t have been smart for me to say that to her.
“Lemme talk to ’im later, Poinsettia. He’d just get mad if I stopped him on the steps.”
“Go to ’im now, Easy. I hear him coming.” She pulled at her robe with frantic fingers.
I could hear him too. Three loud knocks on a door, probably unit B, and then, in his deep voice, “Rent!”
“I’ll go on down,” I said to Poinsettia’s ashen toes.
I pushed the dirt into my long-handled dustpan and made my way down to the second floor, sweeping off each stair as I went. I had just started gathering the dirt into a pile when Mofass came struggling up the stairs.
He’d lean forward to grab the railing, then pull himself up the stairs, hugging and wheezing like an old bulldog.
Mofass looked like an old bulldog too; a bulldog in a three-piece brown suit. He was fat but powerfully built, with low sloping shoulders and thick arms. He always had a cigar in his mouth or between his broad fingers. His color was dark brown but bright, as if a powerful lamp shone just below his skin.
“Mr. Rawlins,” Mofass said to me. He made sure to be respectful when talking to anyone. Even if I actually had been his cleanup man he would have called me mister.
“Mofass,” I said back. That was the only name he let anyone call him. “I need to discuss something with you after I finish here. Maybe we could go somewhere and have some lunch.”
“Suits me,” he said, clamping down on his cigar.
He grabbed the rail to the third floor and began to pull himself up there.
I went back to my work and worry.
Each floor of the Magnolia Street building had a short hallway with two apartments on either side. At the far end was a large window that let in the morning sun. That’s why I fell in love with the place. The morning sun shone in, warming up the cold concrete floors and brightening the first part of your day. Sometimes I’d go there even when there was no work to be done. Mrs. Trajillo would stop me at the front door and ask, “Something wrong with the plumbing, Mr. Rawlins?” And I’d tell her that Mofass had me checking on the roof or that Lily Brown had seen a mouse a few weeks back and I was checking the traps. It was always best if I said something about a rodent or bugs, because Mrs. Trajillo was a sensitive woman who couldn’t stand the idea of anything crawling down around the level of her feet.
Then I’d go upstairs and stand in the window, looking down into the street. Sometimes I’d stand there for an hour and more, watching the cars and clouds making their ways. There was a peaceful feeling about the streets of Los Angeles in those days.
Everybody on the second floor had a job, so I could sit around the halls all morning and nobody would bother me.
But that was all over. Just one letter from the government had ended my good life.
Everybody thought I was the handyman and that Mofass collected the rent for some white lady downtown. I owned three buildings, the Magnolia Street place being the largest, and a small house on 116th Street. All I had to do was the maintenance work, which I liked because whenever you hired somebody to work for you they always took too long and charged too much. And when I wasn’t doing that I could do my little private job.
On top of real estate I was in the business of favors. I’d do something for somebody, like find a missing husband or figure out who’s been breaking into so-and-so’s store, and then maybe they could do me a good turn one day. It was a real country way of doing business. At that time almost everybody in my neighborhood had come from the country around southern Texas and Louisiana.
People would come to me if they had serious trouble but couldn’t go to the police. Maybe somebody stole their money or their illegally registered car. Maybe they worried about their daughter’s company or a wayward son. I settled disputes that would have otherwise come to bloodshed
. I had a reputation for fairness and the strength of my convictions among the poor. Ninety-nine out of a hundred black folk were poor back then, so my reputation went quite a way.
I wasn’t on anybody’s payroll, and even though the rent was never steady, I still had enough money for food and liquor.
“WHAT YOU MEAN, NOT TODAY?” Mofass’s deep voice echoed down the stairs. After that came the strained cries of Poinsettia.
“Cryin’ ain’t gonna pay the rent, Miss Jackson.”
“I ain’t got it! You know I ain’t got it an’ you know why too!”
“I know you ain’t got it, that’s why I’m here. This ain’t my reg’lar collectin’ day, ya know. I come to tell you folks that don’t pay up, the gravy train is busted.”
“I can’t pay ya, Mofass. I ain’t got it and I’m sick.”
“Lissen here.” His voice dropped a little. “This is my job.
My money comes from the rent I collect fo’ Mrs. Davenport.
You see, I bring her a stack’a money from her buildin’s and then she counts it. And when she finishes countin’ she takes out my little piece. Now when I bring her more money I get more, and when I bring in less …”
Mofass didn’t finish, because Poinsettia started crying.
“Let me loose!” Mofass shouted. “Let go, girl!”
“But you promised!” Poinsettia cried. “You promised!”
“I ain’t promised nuthin’! Let go now!”
A few moments later I could hear him coming down the stairs.
“I be back on Saturday, and if you ain’t got the money then you better be gone!” he shouted.
“You can go to hell!” Poinsettia cried in a strong tenor voice. “You shitty-assed bastard! I’ma call Willie on yo’ black ass. He know all about you! Willie chew yo’ shitty ass off!”
Mofass came down the stair holding on to the rail. He was walking slowly amid the curses and screams. I wondered if he even heard them.
“BASTARD!!” shouted Poinsettia.
“Are you ready to leave, Mr. Rawlins?” he asked me.
“I got the first floor yet.”
“Mothahfuckin’ bastard!”
“I’ll be out in the car then. Take your time.” Mofass waved his cigar in the air, leaving a peaceful trail of blue smoke.
When the front door on the first floor closed, Poinsettia stopped shouting and slammed her own door. Everything was quiet again. The sun was still warming the concrete floor and everything was as beautiful as always.
But it wasn’t going to last long. Soon Poinsettia would be in the street and I’d have the morning sun in my jail cell.
— 2
YOU GOT YOUR CAR HERE?” Mofass asked when I climbed into the passenger’s side of his car.
“Naw, I took the bus.” I always took the bus when I went out to clean, because my Ford was a little too flashy for a janitor. “Where you wanna go?”
“You the one wanna talk to me, Mr. Rawlins.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go to that Mexican place then.”
He made a wide U-turn in the middle of the street and drove off in the direction of Rebozo’s.
While Mofass frowned and bit down on his long black cigar I stared out the window at the goings-on on Central Avenue. There were liquor stores and small clothes shops and even a television repair shop here and there. At Central and Ninety-ninth Street a group of men sat around talking—they were halfheartedly waiting for work. It was a habit that some Southerners brought with them; they’d just sit outside on a crate somewhere and wait for someone who needed manual labor to come by and shout their name. That way they could spend the afternoon with their friends, drinking from brown paper bags and shooting dice. They might even get lucky and pick up a job worth a couple of bucksand maybe their kids would have meat that night.
Mofass was driving me to his favorite Mexican restaurant. At Rebozo’s they put sliced avocado in the chili and peppered potato chunks in the burritos.
We got there without saying any more. Mofass got out of the car and locked his door with the key, then he went around to my side and locked that door too. He always locked both doors himself. He never trusted that someone else could do it by holding the door handle so that the lock held. Mofass didn’t trust his own mother; that’s what made him such a good real estate agent.
Another thing I liked about Mofass was that he was from New Orleans and, though he talked like me, he wasn’t intimate with my friends from around Houston, Galveston, and Lake Charles, Louisiana. I was safe from idle gossip about my secret financial life.
Rebozo’s was a dark room with a small bar at the back and three booths on either side. There was a neon-red jukebox next to the bar that was almost always playing music full of brassy horns, accordions, and strumming guitars. But even if the box was silent when we walked in, Mofass would always drop a few nickels and push some buttons.
The first time he did that I asked him, “You like that kinda music?”
“I don’t care,” he answered me. “I just like to have a little noise. Make our talk just ours.” Then he winked, like a drowsy Gila monster.
Mofass and I stared at each other across the table. He had both hands out in front of him. Between the fingers of his left hand that cigar stood up like a black Tower of Pisa. On the pinky of his right hand he wore a gold ring that had a square onyx emblem with a tiny diamond embedded in its center.
I was nervous about discussing my private affairs with Mofass. He collected the rent for me. I gave him nine percent and fifteen dollars for each eviction, but we weren’t friends. Still, Mofass was the only man I could discuss my business with.
“I got a letter today,” I said finally.
“Yeah?”
He looked at me, patiently waiting for what I had to say, but I couldn’t go on. I didn’t want to talk about it yet. I was afraid that saying the bad news out loud would somehow make it real. So instead I asked, “What you wanna do ’bout Poinsettia?”
“What?”
“Poinsettia. You know, the rent?”
“Kick her ass out if she don’t pay.”
“You know that gal is really sick up there. Ever since that car crash she done wasted away.”
“That don’t mean I got to pay her rent.”
“It’s me gonna be payin’ it, Mofass.”
“Uh-uh, Mr. Rawlins. I collect it and until I put it in yo’ hands it’s mine. If that gal go down and tell them other folks that I don’t take her money they gonna take advantage.”
“She’s sick.”
“She got a momma, a sister, that boy Willie she always be talkin’ ’bout. She got somebody. Let them pay the rent. We in business, Mr. Rawlins. Business is the hardest thing they make. Harder than diamonds.”
“What if nobody pays for her?” “You will done fo’got her name in six months, Mr. Rawlins. You won’t even know who she is.”
Before I could say anything more a young Mexican girl came up to us. She had thick black hair and dark eyes without very much white around them. She looked at Mofass and I got the feeling that she didn’t speak English.
He held up two fat fingers and said, “Beer, chili, burrito,” pronouncing each syllable slowly so that you could read his lips.
She gave him a quick smile and went away.
I took the letter from my breast pocket and handed it across the table.
“I want your opinion on this,” I said with a confidence I did not feel.
While I watched Mofass’s hard face I remembered the words he was reading.
Reginald Arnold Lawrence
Investigating Agent
Internal Revenue Service
July 14, 1953
Mr. Ezekiel Rawlins:
It has come my attention, sir, that between August 1948 and September of 1952 you came into the possession of at least three real estate properties.
I have reviewed your tax records back to 1945 and you show no large income, in any year. This would suggest that you could not
legally afford such expenditures.
I am, therefore, beginning an investigation into your tax history and request your appearance within seven days of the date of this letter. Please bring all tax forms for the time period indicated and an accurate record of all income during that time.
As I remembered the letter I could feel ice water leaking in my bowels again. All the warmth I had soaked up in that hallway was gone.
“They got you by the nuts, Mr. Rawlins,” Mofass said, putting the letter back down between us.
I looked down and saw that a beer was there in front of me. The girl must’ve brought it while I was concentrating on Mofass.
“If they could prove you made some money and didn’t tell them about it, yo’ ass be in a cast-iron sling,” Mofass said.
“Shit! I just pay ’em, that’s all.”
He shook his head, and I felt my heart wrench.
“Naw, Mr. Rawlins. Government wants you t’tell ’em what you make. You don’t do that and they put you in the fed’ral penitentiary. And you know the judge don’t even start thinkin’ ’bout no sentence till he come up with a nice round number—like five or ten.”
“But you know, man, my name ain’t even on them deeds. I set up what they call a dummy corporation, John McKenzie helped me to do it. Them papers say that them buildin’s ’long to a Jason Weil.”
Mofass curled his lip and said, “IRS smell a dummy corporation in a minute.”
“Well then I just tell ’em I didn’t know. I didn’t.”
“Com’on, man.” Mofass leaned back and waved his cigar at me. “They just tell ya that ignorance of the law ain’t no excuse, thas all. They don’t care. Say you go shoot some dude been with your girl, kill ’im. You gonna tell ’em you didn’t know ’bout that killin’ was wrong? Anyway, if you went to all that trouble t’hide yo’ money they could tell that you was tryin’ t’cheat ’em.”
A Red Death Page 1