Maybe it was the sugar from the Kool-Aid and not the evocation of my name but walking back to the car was easier than I expected. I jerked the handle to pull the car door open then lowered into the passenger’s seat with great concentration.
“Well?” Mouse asked.
“Why does that woman hate you, Raymond?”
“Lotsa people hate me. You think I know all their stories?”
“I think you know hers.”
“It ain’t nuthin’, Easy, and it sure don’t have to do with Little Gr—I mean Evander goin’ missin’. You gonna close that door?”
“She corroborated everything that your friend Lissa told you.”
“A carburetor?”
“She said that he went missing up on Sunset some days ago. Other than that all I got was a graduation photograph.”
“Lemme see it,” Mouse said, less a demand than a request.
I took the picture from my inside jacket pocket and passed it over.
He held it at a distance from his face great enough to show that his vision was deteriorating.
While he gazed intently at the photograph, his face gave up no inkling of what it was that he felt.
“Mind if I keep this, Easy?”
“I need it.”
“You seen it already,” he argued. “You not gonna forget.”
“When I go around lookin’ for him I’ll need to show that picture to people.”
“All right then,” he said reluctantly. “Here you go. Now shut that door and let’s get outta here.”
“I’m walking,” I said.
“Easy, we already in the car. I know you only a few blocks away but you been hurt, man.”
“If I’m gonna do this for you I have to test my limits,” I said. “Why don’t you go down to Meaty Meatburgers on Fairfax and pick us up some food. I’ll meet you at my place.”
With that, using the full strength in both arms, I lifted myself out of the car. I leaned over to peer inside and said, “I’ll see you in twenty minutes,” then levered myself into an erect stance and slammed the door.
I knew that neighborhood quite well. A block west of the intersection of Pico and Stanley there was a huge metal structure, a hollow, nine-story-high building made from metal plating that had been painted dark yellow, almost the same color as Beatrix’s dress. This was an oil well that plumbed the dark liquid out from under us.
There was no crossing light at the Stanley corner, so I walked past Spaulding down to my street, Genesee, where there was a light.
It was really only three blocks from Timbale’s front door to mine, but the fact that I didn’t know her was no surprise. Neighbors don’t necessarily know each other that well in L.A. We spend most of our time in single homes and one-person cars. In the late sixties we moved as often as fleas leaping from one dog’s head to another one’s butt. There was no walking to or from parks or local bars where neighbors might hang out. If you went somewhere it was either to work or family. And if you partied it was rarely with neighbors.
By the time I made it to the southeast side of Genesee and Pico I was sorely challenged by the exercise. I could feel the exhaustion in the veins across my chest. A bead of sweat came down the side of my head, and I was happy that the traffic light was red. I leaned against the lamppost and sighed.
“Hey, you!” somebody said.
The voice came from behind me, but I didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
I didn’t have to turn, but I did so to greet the two dark blue–clad policemen who were coming at me like twin hyenas on a wounded wildebeest.
“Officers.”
The luxury of fatigue left me. I was a soldier again and this was the enemy. The enemy doesn’t ask you if you’re too tired to stand your ground. The enemy has many wounds of his own and he hates you for every one.
“Let’s see some ID,” the one on the right said.
They were both young and white and male and had been after me as long as all three of us had lived.
I handed over my driver’s license and said, “Name’s Easy Rawlins. I live up here ’bout half a block on Genesee.”
“Have you been drinking, Easy?” the cop on the right asked. I could distinguish him by the mole on his right cheek and the ivory hue to his teeth, which he showed in a false smile.
“I have not.”
“We’re going to have to search you,” the other cop said. “Put your arms straight out to your side.”
“I thought you were asking if I was drunk?”
“You might have an open half-pint in one of your pockets.”
I did as they told me. I didn’t like it, but there was other, more pressing business on my mind.
They went through all my pockets and patted me down to the ankles. One of them, the one without the mole, had very bad halitosis. My walnut-sized stomach throbbed in anguish at the smell.
“Okay,” the mole-festooned cop said when all they found was my wallet, the graduation photograph, seventy-nine cents, and some lint. “Now we’re going to have you walk a straight line for us.”
“Hey,” a new voice proclaimed. “What you botherin’ this man fo’?”
It was a light-colored black man who worked at the auto garage on the corner. He’d been watching, I supposed.
“This is none of your business,” the unblemished cop informed the newcomer.
The mechanic was small, wearing gray overalls. He was the color of an old piece of vellum made from cow’s hide.
“He wasn’t doin’ nuthin’,” my would-be defender said. “He just walked up to the corner and rested against that pole. He ain’t drivin’ no car, so who cares if he had a drink?”
“I won’t be warning you again,” the mole-flecked cop said. He had unsheathed his baton.
“Yeah, nigger,” the partner agreed.
I was getting worried about the well-being of my good-intentioned advocate when yet another voice joined our impromptu chorus.
“What did you say?” This from a tall white man, also in gray overalls, with a big belly. “What did you call my mechanic?”
“Hey, Sammy, what’s goin’ on out there?” yet another voice chimed in.
The garage was a low, whitewashed wood building that encompassed a big open space like a hangar for a small plane. Instead of a front wall the garage had a huge gate that was rolled up when the shop was open. I’d noticed the place when driving on Pico or Genesee but never patronized them. I took my car to my old friend Primo in East L.A.
“This cop just called Bertie a nigger,” the boss man said. “Just like that. Maybe Bertie isn’t as crazy as we said.”
More men came out of the garage. Now there were nine of us standing on the corner.
“This guy was just walkin’,” the man I now knew as Bertie said. “And then this one here up and calls me a niggah.”
There were many fears registering in the white policemen’s eyes: the fear of a complaint lodged against them; the fear of a small roust escalating into a minor riot; the fear of them losing control in a situation that they were not prepared for. But most of all they were afraid of their fellow white man. I didn’t matter. Bertie didn’t matter. But if a white business owner and his white employees stood up against the cops then they were transformed from law enforcement into what they really were—hired help.
“Why’d you call him a nigger?” the boss, Sammy, asked the clear-skinned cop.
“I didn’t,” he replied, gesturing vaguely at me.
“Not him,” Sammy snapped. “Bertie.”
Cars were slowing down on the street. A couple of them had pulled to the curb.
Sammy was angry and so was Bertie. The rest of the mechanics worked for Sammy and so felt that they had to stand behind him.
I suppressed a snicker. It wasn’t so much a nervous laugh as an evil one: a chuckle spawned in the hell of my early life. Even though I couldn’t have thrown a punch, I wanted to cut loose and fight.
Luckily for all of us, the policeman’s radio started making noi
se. Mole Man went to the car and grabbed the microphone. He said something; something was garbled back.
“Hey, Jacob,” he said. “Emergency on Olympic, an armed robbery. We gotta go.”
And so they both jumped into the car and took off.
They didn’t even leave us with a warning.
I had the definite feeling that while I was dead, the world had changed somewhat.
Walter Mosley
Parishioner
Walter Mosley is the author of more than forty-one books, most notably eleven Easy Rawlins mysteries, the first of which, Devil in a Blue Dress, was made into an acclaimed film starring Denzel Washington. Always Outnumbered was an HBO film starring Laurence Fishburne, adapted from his first Socrates Fortlow novel. A native of Los Angeles and a graduate of Johnson State College, he lives in Brooklyn, New York. He is the winner of numerous awards, including an O. Henry Award, a Grammy, and PEN America’s Lifetime Achievement Award.
Also by Walter Mosley
Leonid McGill Mysteries
All I Did Was Shoot My Man
When the Thrill Is Gone
Known to Evil
The Long Fall
Easy Rawlins Mysteries
Blonde Faith
Cinnamon Kiss
Little Scarlet
Six Easy Pieces
Bad Boy Brawly Brown
Gone Fishin’
A Little Yellow Dog
Black Betty
White Butterfly
A Red Death
Devil in a Blue Dress
Other Fiction
Merge / Disciple: Two Short Novels from Crosstown to Oblivion
The Gift of Fire/On the Head of a Pin
The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey
The Tempest Tales
The Right Mistake
Diablerie Killing Johnny Fry
Fear of the Dark
Fortunate Son
The Wave
47
The Man in My Basement
Fear Itself
Futureland: Nine Stories of an Imminent World
Fearless Jones
Walkin’ the Dog
Blue Light
Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned
RL’s Dream
Nonfiction
12 Steps Toward Political Revelation
This Year You Write Your Novel
Life Out of Context
What Next: A Memoir Toward World Peace
Workin’ on the Chain Gang
Plays
The Fall of Heaven
ALSO BY
WALTER MOSLEY
The legendary Easy Rawlins returns from the brink of death to investigate the dark side of L.A.’s 1960s hippie haven, the Sunset Strip.
We last saw Easy Rawlins in 2007’s Blonde Faith, fighting for his life after his car plunged over a cliff. The tough WWII veteran survives and, in Walter Mosley’s new mystery thriller Little Green, his murderous sidekick Mouse has him back cruising the mean streets of L.A., in all their groovy 1967 psychedelic glory, to look for a young black man who disappeared during an acid trip. But peace and love soon give way to murder and mayhem, and once again Easy shows us why he’s still king of the City of (Fallen) Angels.
Parishioner Page 27
