Little Scarlet er-9

by Walter Mosley

  Melvin hadn’t thought of that. He turned his eyes toward a tan filing cabinet in the corner.

  “One thing at a time,” he said. “Tell me what you know about this Harold right now.”

  I told him all I knew. It wasn’t much. He was on the short side and medium brown. I remembered that his hairline was beginning to recede and his beard hairs were at least half gray. When I’d met him he looked about fifty to me, but on thinking about it later, I thought that street life had aged him prematurely. He had big hands that seemed a little bloated. He had spent at least a few nights in the drunk tank and he drove a shopping cart. His mother was still alive and lived in L.A., a fact he let drop in the one three-minute conversation I had with him. He had never looked me directly in the eye.

  Suggs took notes while I talked and when I was finished he snapped his little notepad shut.

  “Not much,” he said.

  “I know. I’ve spent months driving around South L.A. looking for him. But it’s a big city. I thought maybe he migrated away. But if his mother is here, I hoped that he either came back to see her or that he never left.”

  “I’ll put out the word on this Harold,” Suggs said. “But you should be out there lookin’ for him too. Did you find out anything about the white man that stayed with Nola?”

  “No.”

  “Well,” he said, “that’s probably for the best anyway. Jordan’s office won’t care about our theories on some black Jack the Ripper out around here. No sir they sure wouldn’t. Find the white man and truss him up like a Thanksgiving turkey—that’s Jordan’s speed.”

  26

  Suggs accompanied me out of the precinct. Half the policemen in the station came out to watch our passage. If I’d gone alone I would have been drawn into a fight I could have never won. Suggs knew that and walked me all the way to my car. There he extended his hand to me again. I shook it. It had been a long time since I felt that a white policeman saw eye to eye with me. The least I could do was take his hand in friendship.

  I had the urge to get out in the streets and search for Harold but I knew better. Los Angeles is a big place. Anyone can hide there. There are docks and train yards and so many back alleys that it would take you two months to search them all once.

  No, I wouldn’t get far by driving around, so I went home to see my beautiful patchwork family.

  The little yellow dog, Frenchie, met me at the door. He snarled and barked his disapproval at my presence.

  “I’m home,” I called, thinking that Bonnie and Feather would be in the kitchen sharing girl talk and making dinner.

  “Hey, Easy,” a somewhat masculine voice said.

  Jackson Blue rose up out of the love seat.

  Jackson was very dark, slender, and short. I’d known him since my early years in Houston. We were what you would call friends but he certainly was not someone I could trust.

  Jackson’s own mother couldn’t trust him. He was a liar by nature and a thief from the first day he could close his hands around some other baby’s rattle. But on the plus side he smiled easily, knew all of the important gossip within a twenty-mile radius, and had an IQ probably on a par with some of the greatest geniuses of history.

  One of Jackson’s most endearing qualities was his cowardice combined with a willingness to get involved with some of the worst criminals you could imagine. He was always looking over his shoulder or cowering in some dark corner. He laughed easily and I was sure that he stayed so slim so that he’d have the edge when he might have to outrun some irate partner in crime.

  “Jackson,” I said.

  Now that he was standing I could see that he was wearing a tailored two-piece gray flannel suit with a white shirt, a dark maroon tie, and glasses with thick black rims. I tried to think of why he would be wearing such a getup. But no matter what came to mind there was no justification for it.

  “You like?” he asked with a grin, holding up his cuffs and giving a wink.

  “Halloween?” I asked, gesturing at the suit.

  “You a regular Redd Foxx. No. This is a business suit. I’m a businessman.”

  “Hi, honey,” Bonnie said, coming out of the kitchen.

  “Daddy!” Feather yelled, careening between Bonnie and Jackson and slamming into my legs.

  Feather hugged my right thigh, Bonnie kissed my cheek, and Jackson got into it by giving me a handshake. It was one of the few moments at that time that stands out for me as peaceful and whole. There I was, a man surrounded by friendship and love.

  “Uncle Jackson says that there’s people in the South Pacific got two heads,” Feather said.

  “Maybe if they buy a head of lettuce at the store,” I told her.

  Feather giggled and then laughed until she fell to the floor.

  Bonnie picked her up and I kissed her.

  “What you doin’ here, Jackson?” I asked.

  “Anybody ever need help, they come to Easy Rawlins,” he said.

  Maybe I should have turned him away. I already had two or three full-time jobs to accomplish in the next week or so. Jackson wasn’t deserving of special consideration because he was so undependable. But no one I ever knew had a mind like his. And I was going to need some special thinking if I was going to go out after Harold the woman killer.

  “What’s up, Jackson?”

  Bonnie whirled Feather around and whisked her back into the kitchen.

  Jackson sat in the love seat and I pulled up a two-rung step stool that Bonnie had bought so that she could get up on the high shelves.

  “It’s Jewelle,” he said. He adjusted his glasses as he spoke.

  “Since when you been wearin’ glasses, Blue?”

  “You like ’em? I just got ’em last week. Bought ’em up in Beverly Hills—on Rodeo Drive.”

  “Near-sighted?” I asked.

  Jackson grinned. “No, brother. My eyesight’s twenty-ten. You a small man like me, need an edge with all these violent peoples runnin’ up and down the street.”

  He handed me the glasses and I tried them on. It was like looking through the windshield of my car—no change at all. I handed them back.

  “I don’t get it. Glasses make you look like an egghead. What’s the angle?”

  Jackson smiled again.

  “You know I been studyin’ the binary language of machines,” he said.

  Computers had been Jackson’s passion for some time. He had been holed up in a small apartment managed by his lover, Jewelle MacDonald, for well over a year reading about how those thinking machines worked.

  I said all of this by nodding.

  “Well,” he said, “a while ago I decided to see if I could get me a job at a bank or some insurance company workin’ on their computers. I know the IBM languages called BAL and COBOL and FORTRAN. I know all the loops and peripheries and the JCL too.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about but it still gave me an inner glee to know that a ghetto-bred black man like Jackson could know all the rich white businessmen’s secrets.

  “So what’s that got to do with your glasses?” I asked.

  “I been goin’ out on job interviews for the last five weeks,” he said. “At first I was wearin’ my light blue suit but I could see that that wasn’t the way a businessman’s supposed to be dressed. I got me some Brooks Brothers then but still I couldn’t get a job. Finally I realized that I had to do somethin’ about bein’ black.”

  We both chuckled. If anyone was a black man it was Jackson. His skin, his accent, the way he laughed at a joke.

  “It came to me,” he went on, “that even though I’m little the white people were still scared’a me. So I had to make it so I didn’t seem scary.”

  “Damn,” I said in deep appreciation for his uncharacteristically subtle solution. “So you put on those glasses with the ugly frames so the people at the bank would think that you’re a Poindexter.”

  “Tried ’em out this afternoon,” he said. “And three people said I’m as good as hired.”

  “
Damn, Jackson. Damn. You’re good.”

  It was rare that I complimented Blue. He grinned to show his appreciation.

  “That’s the favor I need,” he said.

  “I thought it was Jewelle needed help?”

  “She does—in a way.”

  “Uh-huh. What’s the scam, Jackson?”

  “No scam, man. I swear.”

  “No? Then let’s hear it.”

  “You know about that big shoppin’ center they puttin’ up over near Slauson?” he asked.

  “The one on Figueroa?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “What about it?”

  “The name on the papers is the Bigelow Corporation,” he said. “But you know almost every dime comes from JJ. She bankrolled the project thinkin’ we was gonna be rich.”

  It made sense that the young Jewelle and Jackson had gotten together. He was a technical and philosophical whiz, while she had a knack with real estate and finance that put me to shame. And Jewelle didn’t mind caring for a man older than her by decades. She had been with my real estate agent, Mofass. He was quite a few years past sixty when he died. And Jewelle wasn’t put off by a man who lived a rough life either. Mofass had died in a murder-suicide protecting Jewelle from her homicidal auntie.

  “. . . so,” Jackson was saying, “I need to work until JJ get on her feet. You know she gonna have to sell almost everything she own to keep the wolf from the door. That house up in the canyon and every apartment buildin’ she got. She says she’s gonna come live with me down in Santa Monica.”

  “You like that?”

  “She been payin’ my bills for a long time, Easy. Don’t matter what I like.”

  It takes a woman to make a man. That’s what my cousin Rames used to say. I never knew what he really meant until that moment.

  “So what is it you need from me, Jackson?”

  “You remember that answerin’ machine I hooked up for that numbers thing?”

  “You mean when those white gangsters were tryin’ to kill you?” I asked. “You mean the reason you livin’ in Santa Monica today? So they don’t find you and shoot you in the back’a your head?”

  “Yeah,” he said, giving me the evil eye. “I wanna put that machine on your office phone.”

  “Why?”

  “I gave your number for a reference. I said that your number was for the office of Tyler Office Machines. I said that I fixed your cash registers and time clocks.”

  And there it was again. Jackson couldn’t fly straight down if you threw him off a cliff. He could have gotten a job as a filing clerk or a secretary and worked his way up to the computer room. But that wasn’t how he operated. Get in quick, burn down everything, and then run like hell—that was Jackson’s way.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’d be happy to.”

  I even smiled.

  Jackson didn’t like it. He was ready to give me some long sob story about how we both owed so much to Jewelle and how he was finally trying to settle down and use his mind. He wasn’t used to me saying yes without an argument.

  “What’s up, Easy?” he asked cautiously.

  “Let’s wait till after dinner,” I said. “Then we can go down and put in your machine and maybe you could do a little something for me.”

  27

  Bonnie and Feather had made short ribs roasted in a spicy Jamaican sauce. They also served rice with some red beans mixed in and collard greens cooked with kale, onions, and salt pork. There were corn muffins to soak up the juices and for dessert we had Feather’s favorite: strawberry Jell-O made with a cup of melted ice cream folded in.

  Like most naturally thin men Jackson had a good appetite. He took thirds on everything and would have kept on eating if I hadn’t pulled him out of his chair.

  I kissed my weepy daughter good-bye and asked Bonnie to tell Jesus if he called that I expected to see him by the next day.

  “OKAY, EASY, WHAT kinda trouble you in?” Jackson said when we were less than a block from my house.

  I could have tortured him but with Harold on the streets I didn’t have the leisure to act coy. I told him the whole story starting from the time I helped Musa Tanous prove that he hadn’t killed the beautiful teenager Jackie Jay.

  “And the cops didn’t believe you up until this new woman got killed?” was Jackson’s response.

  “It’s only one cop believe me now,” I said. “It’s just the three of us if you wanna help.”

  “Me? What can I do, Easy?”

  “Talk to me, Jackson. Talk to me. You one’a the only men I know can talk about the streets with me. I mean Mouse knows the street but he only knows one way.”

  “That sounds like what you would want with a man like this here Harold,” Jackson said. “Mouse would do what’s right in a situation like that.”

  “I got to find the man first.”

  Jackson nodded and sat back in his seat. Then he scratched his left ear with a baby finger and I knew he was applying his mind to my problem.

  I was so upset about Harold and the riots and the sweet sugar talk of Juanda that there wasn’t much room in my head for logical thought. I wanted to use Jackson as a kind of a jump start.

  We got to my office and installed his answering gizmo. It was a big box that he wired directly to the jack. If the phone rang, it picked up after the third ring and gave out a prerecorded message.

  Jackson wrote a little speech for me to give and I did it without any Texas or Louisiana in my voice. After that Jackson put his feet up on the edge of a small trash can and grabbed the back of his neck with both hands.

  “What you think about these riots, Easy?” he asked, beating me to the punch.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Me neither. Me neither. I just cain’t see how people gonna get out in the street and waste that much energy when all you gonna get is some scratched-up shit don’t even match the carpet on yo’ floors.”

  “It was more than that, man,” I said. “It’s hot and they been sittin’ on our necks forever.”

  “I don’t see nobody sittin’ on our necks, Easy.” Jackson looked around, indicating that it was just him and me in the room.

  “No? Did they ever send a letter to your mama’s farm askin’ you to go to college and say that they’d be happy to pay for your courses?”

  “’Course not.”

  “Did your teachers tell you that you were the smartest kid in school and you need to go to college?”

  “Are you crazy, Easy?”

  “They don’t do it out at Sojourner Truth but maybe two times in a year. And you know that’s wrong.”

  “And me throwin’ rocks gonna change that?”

  “Maybe not for you.”

  “Definitely not,” Jackson said. “Especially if I get arrested or killed.”

  I could still smell the smoke from the streets in my office.

  “I need to find this man Harold,” I said. “You got any ideas?”

  “I’m not gonna get my hands dirty, Easy. I’ma take this here job as a computer man and I ain’t never gonna be in these streets again.”

  “Okay,” I said. “You just point me in the right direction and pull the trigger. That’s all you got to do.”

  I could feel my language turning toward my southern roots. Jackson brought out the country in me.

  “There’s a flop house over on Manchester near Avalon. You know it?”

  “Gray bungalow,” I said, “with boarded-up windows.”

  “That’s the place. White guy run it. Man named Bill. I think he was a preacher or a priest or sumpin’ but he got the call and put that place in. He wanna help people when they down. You know I been there a few times myself. Before I got it together and started —”

  “Livin’ off of Jewelle,” I said, cutting off whatever story he’d invented to make it seem like he was making it on his own.

  “Why you wanna fuck wit’ me, Easy? Fuck wit’ me and then ask me for my advice.”

  “Excuse me,” I said. �
��Go on.”

  “Bill’s a good guy. He likes Negroes and he knows about that foot on the neck thing you talkin’ ’bout. I mean, he’s part of the problem but he mean well.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean —‘part of the problem’?”

  “It’s like when the doctor I used to have would give me a penicillin injection and every two weeks later I’d come down sick again,” he said. “Finally after about a year I went to the medical library at UCLA and looked up about those antibiotics. I realized that he never gave me enough. That way he had me comin’ back for more. You know that doctor wasn’t no better than a pusher. The only difference with Bill is that he don’t have enough medicine to pass around. One bowl of soup and a sandwich and a cot—that’s all he can give ya. And you know, Easy, when you only give enough medicine to keep the disease down, it gets stronger down there and come back with a vengeance.”

  “So you think Father Bill there would know about Harold?” I asked.

  “Yes sir. I sure do. Every brother been down on his luck been to Brother Bill’s mission at one time or other. Everybody.”

  “So what should I do?”

  Jackson smiled and hunched his shoulders.

  “I ain’t gonna get my hands dirty, Easy,” he said. “But that don’t mean you have to come out clean.”

  ON THE RIDE back to my house we talked about the internally rhyming irony of the phrases “space shots” and “race riots.” Using that as his argument Jackson postulated that there was some sort of mathematical and poetic necessity that brings about a balance in scientific, economic, and social extremes.

  “You can’t have a rich man if you don’t have a poor one, Easy,” he said. “You can’t have a clean floor unless you got somewhere to put the dirt.”

  “What you gonna do if you get that job, Jackson?”

  “Work.”

  “I mean really.”

  “I’m a changed man, Easy,” the man who most resembled a black coyote said. “No more shit, brother. I’ma make a nest for Jewelle and feather it with hard-earned cash.”