Bad Boy Brawley Brown er-7

by Walter Mosley

  I stopped talking and kept on walking.

  The Cadillac sped on ahead and pulled onto the curb about thirty feet ahead of me. The driver's door swung open and he came out. He had to unfold his long legs from his chest to climb out from the seat. When he stood up I could see that he was a tall man with a thin, almost crescent face and light hair that was either gray or blond—I couldn't tell which by lamplight.

  He held his hands out in front of him, about shoulder height. It was a strange gesture because it looked like he was asking for peace but I knew he could have grabbed me from that pose too.

  "Listen here, man," I said. I crouched back thinking that it would be easiest to take a tall man down at the knee. "I'm goin' home. That's all I'm doin'. Your friend wanna talk, then you better tell'im to get me on the phone."

  The tall driver pointed behind with his thumb and said, "Man told me to tell you that he knows why the police took you in, Easy. He says he wants to talk about it."

  The driver had a grin on his face and faraway look in his eye. While I looked at him I got tired. I felt that if I lunged at him I'd just fall on my face. Anyway, I wanted to find out why the police had taken me in.

  "Just talk, right?" I asked.

  "If he wanted to hurt you you'd already be dead."

  The driver opened the door to the back seat and I climbed in. The moment the door shut I gagged on the odors. The smells were sweet like perfume and sour, an odor of the body that I recognized but could put no name to.

  The car took off in reverse and I was thrown into the seat with my back to the driver. Before me sat a fat white man. His round white face looked like a moon in the flashes of passing lamplight. He was smiling. Behind his seat was a shallow storage area. I thought I saw something moving around back there but before I could look closer he spoke to me.

  "Where is she, Mr. Rawlins?"

  "'Scuse me?"

  "Daphne Monet. Where is she?"

  "Who's that?"

  I never got used to big lips on white people, especially white men. This white man had lips that were fat and red. They looked like swollen wounds.

  "I know why they took you in there, Mr. Rawlins." He gestured with his head to say the police station behind. But when he did that I looked in the storage area again. He looked pleased and said, "Come on out, honey."

  A small boy climbed over the seat. He was wearing soiled briefs and dirty white socks. His skin was brown and his thick straight hair was black. The almond-shaped eyes spoke of China but this was a Mexican boy.

  He climbed down to the floor and curled around the fat man's leg.

  "This is my little man," the fat man said. "He's the only reason I can keep on going."

  The sight of that poor child and the odors made me cringe. I tried not to think about what I was seeing because I couldn't do anything about it—at least not right then.

  "I don't know what you want with me, Mr. Teran," I said. "But I don't know why the police arrested me and I don't know no Daphne nobody. All I want is to get home and put this whole night behind me."

  "So you know who I am?"

  "I read the paper. You were running for mayor."

  "Could be again," he said. "Could be again. And maybe you could help." He reached down to scratch the little boy behind the ear.

  "I don't know what you mean. I don't know nuthin'."

  "The police wanted to know what you did after you had drinks with Coretta James and Dupree Bouchard."

  "Yeah?"

  "I don't care about that, Easy. All I want to know is if somebody used the name Daphne Monet."

  I shook my head, no.

  "Did anybody," he hesitated, "strange … want to talk to Coretta?"

  "What you mean, strange?"

  Matthew Teran smiled at me for a moment, then he said, "Daphne is a white girl, Easy. Young and pretty. It means an awful lot to me if I can find her."

  "I can't help ya, man. I don't even know why they pulled me in there. Do you know?"

  Instead of answering me he asked, "Did you know Howard Green?"

  "I met'im once or twice."

  "Did Coretta say anything about him that night?"

  "Not a word." It felt good to tell the truth.

  "How about your friend Dupree? Did he say anything?"

  "Dupree drinks. That's what he does. And when he's finished drinking, then he goes to sleep. That's what he did. That's all he did."

  "I'm a powerful man, Mr. Rawlins." He didn't need to tell me. "And I wouldn't want to think that you were lying to me."

  "Do you know why the cops took me in?"

  Matthew Teran picked up the little Mexican boy and hugged him to his chest.

  "What do you think, honey?" he asked the boy.

  Thick mucus threatened to flow from the boy's nose. His mouth was open and he stared at me as if I were a strange animal. Not a dangerous animal, maybe the corpse of a dog or porcupine run over and bleeding on the highway.

  Mr. Teran picked up an ivory horn that hung next to his head and spoke into it. "Norman, take Mr. Rawlins where he wants to go. We're finished for the time being." Then he handed the horn to me. It smelled strongly of sweet oils and sour bodies. I tried to ignore the smells as I gave Norman the address of John's speak.

  "Here's your money, Mr. Rawlins," Teran said. He was holding a few damp bills in his hand.

  "No thanks." I didn't want to touch anything that that man had touched.

  "My office is listed in the book, Mr. Rawlins. If you find something out I think you might find me helpful."

  When the car stopped in front of John's I got out as fast as I could.

  "Easy!" Hattie yelled. "What happened to you, baby?" She came around the counter to put her hand on my shoulder. "Cops," I said.

  "Oh, baby. Was it about Coretta?"

  Everyone seemed to know about my life.

  "What about Coretta?"

  "Ain't you heard?"

  I just stared at her.

  "Coretta been murdered," she said. "I hear the police took Dupree outta his job 'cause he been out there with her. And I knowed you was with'em on Wednesday so I figured the police might'a s'pected you."

  "Murdered?"

  "Just like Howard Green. Beat her so bad that it was her mother who had to tell'em."

  "Dead?"

  "What they do to you, Easy?"

  "Is Odell here, Hattie?"

  "Come in 'bout seven."

  "What time is it?"

  "Ten."

  "Could you get Odell for me?" I asked.

  "Sure can, Easy. You just let me get Junior t'do it."

  She stuck her head in the door and then came back. In a few minutes Odell came out. I could see that I must've looked bad by the expression on Odell's face. He rarely showed any emotion at all but right then he looked like he'd seen a ghost.

  "Could you give me a ride home, Odell? I don't have my car."

  "Sure thing, Easy."

  Odell was quiet for most of the ride but when we got close to my house he said, "You better get some rest, Easy."

  "I sure intend to try, Odell."

  "I don't mean just sleep, now. I mean some real rest, like a vacation or somethin'."

  I laughed. "A woman once told me that poor people can't afford no vacations. She said that we gotta keep workin' or we end up dead."

  "You don't have to stop workin'. I mean more like a change. Maybe you should go on down t'Houston or maybe even Galveston where they don't know you too good."

  "Why you say that, Odell?"

  We pulled up to my house. My Pontiac was a welcome sight, parked there and waiting for me. I could have driven across the nation with the money Albright had given me.

  "First Howard Green gets killed, then Coretta goes the same way. Police do this to you and they say Dupree's still in jail. Time to go."

  "I can't go, Odell."

  "Why not?"

  I looked at my house. My beautiful home.

  "I just can't," I said. "But I do think you're ri
ght."

  "If you don't leave, Easy, then you better look for some help."

  "What kind'a help you mean?"

  "I don't know. Maybe you should come on down to church on Sunday. Maybe you could talk to Reverend Towne."

  "Lord ain't got no succor fo' this mess. I'm'a have to look somewhere else."

  I got out of his car and waved him goodbye. But Odell was a good friend; he waited there until I had hobbled to my door and stumbled into the house.

  12

  I put away a pint and a half of bourbon before I could get to sleep. The sheets were crisp and dry and the fear was far enough away in the alcohol, but whenever I closed my eyes Coretta was there, hunching over me and kissing my chest.

  I was still young enough that I couldn't imagine death really happening to someone I knew. Even in the war I expected to see friends again, though I knew they were dead.

  The night carried on like that. I'd fall asleep for a few minutes only to wake up calling Coretta's name or to answer her calling me. If I couldn't fall back to sleep I'd reach for the bottle of whiskey next to the bed.

  Later that night the phone rang.

  "Huh?" I mumbled.

  "Easy? Easy, that you?" came a rough voice.

  "Yeah. What time is it?"

  "'Bout three. You 'sleep, man?"

  "What you think? Who is this?"

  "Junior. Don't you know me?"

  It took me a while to remember who he was. Junior and I had never been friends and I couldn't even think of where he might have found my phone number.

  "Easy? Easy! You fallin' back asleep?"

  "What you want this time'a mornin', Junior?"

  "Ain't nuthin'. Nuthin'."

  "Nuthin'? You gonna get me outta my bed at three fo' nuthin'?"

  "Don't go soundin' off on me now, man. I just wanted to tell you what you wanted t'know."

  "What you want, Junior?"

  "'Bout that girl, thas all." He sounded nervous. He was talking fast and I had the feeling that he kept looking over his shoulder. "Why was you lookin' fo' her anyway?"

  "You mean the white girl?"

  "Yeah. I just remembered that I saw her last week. She come in with Frank Green."

  "What's her name?"

  "I think he called her Daphne. I think."

  "So how come you just tellin' me now? How come you callin' me this late anyway?"

  "I'ont get off till two-thirty, Easy. I thought you wanted to know, so I called ya."

  "You jus' figgered you'd call me in the middle'a the night an' tell me 'bout some girl? Man, you fulla shit! What the hell do you want?"

  Junior let out a couple of curses and hung the phone in my ear.

  I got the bottle and poured myself a tall drink. Then I lit up a cigarette and pondered Junior's call. It didn't make any sense, him calling me in the night just to tell me about some girl I wanted to play with. He had to know something. But what could a thick-headed field hand like Junior know about my business? I finished the drink and the cigarette but it still didn't make sense.

  The whiskey calmed my nerves, though, and I was able to fall into a half sleep. I dreamed about casting for catfish down south of Houston when I was just a boy. There were giant catfish in the Gatlin River. My mother told me that some of them were so big that the alligators left them alone.

  I had caught on to one of those giants and I could just make out its big head below the surface of the water. Its snout was the size of a man's torso.

  Then the phone rang.

  I couldn't answer it without losing my fish so I shouted for my mother to get it but she must not have heard because the phone kept on ringing and that catfish kept trying to dive. I finally had to let it go and I was almost crying when I picked up the receiver. "Hello."

  "'Allo? Thees is Mr. Rawlins? Yes?" The accent was mild, like French, but it wasn't French exactly.

  "Yeah," I exhaled. "Who's that?"

  "I am calling you about a problem with a friend of yours."

  "Who's that?"

  "Coretta James," she said, enunciating each syllable.

  That set me up straight. "Who is this?"

  "My name is Daphne. Daphne Monet," she said. "Your friend, Coretta, no? She came to see me and asked for money. She said that you were looking for me and if I don't give it to her she goes to tell you. Easy, no?"

  "When she say that?"

  "Not yesterday but the day before that."

  "So what'd you do?"

  "I give to her my last twenty dollars. I don't know you, do I, Mr. Rawlins?"

  "What she do then?"

  "She goes away and I worry about it and my friend is away and doesn't come back home so then I think maybe I find you and you tell me, yes? Why you want to find me?"

  "I don't know what you mean," I said. "But your friend, who's that?"

  "Frank. Frank Green."

  I reached for my pants out of reflex; they were on the floor, next to the bed.

  "Why do you look for me, Mr. Rawlins? Do I know you?"

  "You must'a made some kinda mistake, honey. I don't know what she was talkin' 'bout… Do you think Frank went lookin' for her?"

  "I don't tell Frank about her coming 'ere. He was not 'ere but then he does not come home."

  "I don't know a thing about where Frank is, and Coretta's dead."

  "Dead?" She sounded as if she was really surprised.

  "Yeah, they think it happened Thursday night."

  "This is terrible. Do you think maybe something 'as 'appened with Frank?"

  "Listen, lady, I don't know what's goin' on with Frank or anybody else. All I know is that it ain't none'a my business and I hope you do okay but I have to go right now …"

  "But you must help me."

  "No thanks, honey. This is too much fo' me."

  "But if you do not help I will 'ave to go to the police to find my friend. I will 'ave to tell them about you and this woman, this Coretta."

  "Listen, it was prob'ly your friend that killed her."

  "She was stabbed?"

  "No," I said, realizing what she meant. "She was beaten to death."

  "That ees not Frank. He 'as the knife. He does not use his fists. You will help me?"

  "Help you what?" I said. I put up my hands to show how helpless I was but no one could see me.

  "I 'ave a friend, yes? He may know where to find Frank."

  "I don't need to go lookin' fo' Frank Green but if you want'im why don't you just call this friend?"

  "I, I must go to him. He 'as something for me and …"

  "So why do you need me? If he's your friend just go to his house. Take a taxi."

  "I do not 'ave the money and Frank 'as my car. It is far away, my friend's house, but I could tell you 'ow to go."

  "No thanks, lady."

  "Please help me. I do not want to call the police but I 'ave no other way if you do not help."

  I was afraid of the police too. Afraid that the next time I went down to the police station I wouldn't be getting out. I was missing my catfish more and more. I could almost smell it frying; I could almost taste it.

  "Where are you?" I asked.

  "At my house, on Dinker Street. Thirty-four fifty-one and a 'alf."

  "That's not where Frank lives."

  "I 'ave my own place. Yes? He is not my lover."

  "I could bring you some money and put you in a cab over on Main. That's all."

  "Oh yes, yes! That would be fine."

  13

  At four in the morning the neighborhoods of Los Angeles are asleep. On Dinker Street there wasn't even a dog out prowling the trash. The dark lawns were quiet, dotted now and then with hushed white flowers that barely shone in the lamplight.

  The French girl's address was a one-story duplex; the porch light shone on her half of the porch.

  I stayed in my car long enough to light up a cigarette. The house looked peaceful enough. There was a fat palm tree in the front yard. The lawn was surrounded by an ornamental white picket fence.
There were no bodies lying around, no hard-looking men with knives on the front porch. I should have taken Odell's advice right then and left California for good.

  When I got to the door she was waiting behind it.

  "Mr. Rawlins?"

  "Easy, call me Easy."

  "Oh, yes. That is what Coretta called you. Yes?"

  "Yeah."

  "I am Daphne, please to come in."

  It was one of those houses that used to be for one family but something happened. Maybe a brother and sister inherited it and couldn't come to a deal so they just walled the place in half and called it a duplex.

  She led me into the half living room. It had brown carpets, a brown sofa with a matching chair, and brown walls. There was a bushy potted fern next to the brown curtains that were closed over the entire front wall. Only the coffee table wasn't brown. It was a gilded stand on which lay a clear glass tabletop.

  "A drink, Mr. Rawlins?" Her dress was the simple blue kind that the French girls wore when I was a GI in Paris. It was plain and came down to just below her knee. Her only jewelry was a small ceramic pin, worn over her left breast.

  "No thanks."

  Her face was beautiful. More beautiful than the photograph. Wavy hair so light brown that you might have called it blond from a distance, and eyes that were either green or blue depending on how she held her head. Her cheekbones were high but her face was full enough that it didn't make her seem severe. Her eyes were just a little closer than most women's eyes; it made her seem vulnerable, made me feel that I wanted to put my arms around her—to protect her.

  We looked at each other for a few moments before she spoke. "Would you 'ave something to eat?"

  "No thanks." I realized that we were whispering and asked, "Is there anybody else here?"

  "No," she whispered, moving close enough for me to smell the soap she used, Ivory. "I live alone."

  Then she reached out a long delicate hand to touch my face.

  "You 'ave been fighting?"

  "What?"

  "The bruises on your face."

  "Nuthin'."

  She didn't move her hand.

  "I could clean them for you?"

  I put my hand out to touch her face, thinking, This is crazy.

  "It's okay," I said. "I brought you twenty-five dollars."

  She smiled like a child. Only a child could ever be that happy.

  "Thank you," she said. She turned away and seated herself on the brown chair, clasping her hands on her lap. She nodded at the couch and I lowered myself.