Fear of the Dark fjm-3

by Walter Mosley

  I must say that no one in my life elated me like Fearless did.

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  Ha had appeared next to the snooker entrance before we reached the curtain.

  “Boo!” Fearless said to the curtain, and it was pulled away.

  The door opened onto a dark passage lit by only one weak blue bulb.

  As we ascended the narrow staircase I wondered about magic: those who had it, and those who did not.

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  We o n l y h a d o n e f l i g h t of stairs to make a plan. After that we’d be in enemy terri-20 tory. Fearless was used to that kind of pressure.

  He’d been a hair-trigger killer all through Europe for the U.S.

  army. They’d whisper a sentence or two into his ear, and he’d go out among Aryans, shooting and slaying and burning down.

  “What’s the thing, man?” he asked me on the first step.

  “Useless been hangin’ around Twist’s for some time now,” I said. “He told Ha that he been takin’ money from white men, that he had ’em by the dick.”

  “The dick?” Fearless echoed. “Damn.”

  We were halfway to the second floor.

  “You know what we need,” I said. “Where is Useless and, failing that, what does Twist know about Useless that we don’t know?”

  “Beats a knife in the ribs,” Fearless said.

  For some reason, that caused me to grin.

  The door to Jerry Twist’s was red. Dark red in a dark stairway. The faint light imbued the portal with a throbbing quality.

  I let Fearless do the knocking.

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  He only rapped one time before the blood-colored door swung inward. Framed in the darkness of that doorway and lit by the weak light from the stairs stood K. C. Littell, one of the many mysteries of Watts.

  K.C., from almost any perspective, was a white man. He had pale skin, wavy brown hair, and eyes that hadn’t seemed to decide on which shade of brown they actually were. His features, however — lips and nose — were small but not quite Caucasian. A white man might have been fooled by K.C.’s appearance. Many Negroes like him had disappeared into the white world. They lived there, married to white spouses, raising white children, belonging to white PTAs. But not K.C. He was a virulent Negro. Something in his upbringing, something about his appearance made him want to bathe himself in the color he’d been denied.

  “Happenin’, Fearless, Paris,” he sang.

  “Nuthin’ to it, brother,” I said.

  “We wanna come in a minute, K.C.,” Fearless said. “That okay?”

  The pale guardian pretended to think for a moment. But he knew that he didn’t have the authority to bar Mr. Jones’s way.

  No. There wasn’t a president or king worth his salt who couldn’t see the royalty in my friend.

  K.C. nodded and stepped aside. We entered the vast room, assailed by darkness and light.

  There was enough room for fifteen tables in Twist’s enor-mous poolroom — but he only kept six. They were spaced out like islands of light on a sea of black. Each table, handmade and imported from Copenhagen, was under three hanging lamps delivering rich and buttery radiance. Every table was 127

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  occupied by professional pool men from all over the country. If you were a black man and you played pool, gaining entrée to Twist’s was the highest accolade you would ever receive.

  The only sound coming from the room was the clacking of billiard balls. There were at least a dozen men in there playing, but I never even heard a murmur.

  Somewhere in the darkness was our quarry. Jerry’s desk was against one of the walls. He never had his lamp turned on and kept a penlight for the few times he had to read or sign something.

  Each player paid a hundred dollars a night for the privilege of playing at Twist’s. The winners left a 10 percent tip for the host if they ever wanted to play there again.

  If someone needed water or whiskey or both, K.C. called down to Ha Tsu and he had one of his waitresses bring up the order.

  It wasn’t known what the relationship between Ha and Jerry was. No one even knew who owned the building they occupied. Were they partners or did such brilliant and unusual men just happen to come together in that place at that time?

  “Mr. Jones,” came Jerry’s moderate alto. “Paris.”

  Over to our left Jerry materialized out of night.

  Mr. Twist looked nothing like his name. He was short and stout with googly, watery eyes that most often seemed to be gazing somewhere above your head. His lips were like those I’d imagine on Edward G. Robinson’s grandfather. All in all he looked like an uncomfortable cross between a man and a frog. He was good with a stick, better at business, and had the air of danger about him. He was one of those men — like Cleave and Fearless — who lived outside the rule of law.

  Jerry was from Louisiana too. He’d grown up not seven 128

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  miles from the hovel I called home. He was my senior by a decade, but I remembered him — ugly and gawking, different from the rest. I used to think that we had something in common.

  But years later I realized that the only experience we shared was our separateness from the people around us.

  “Hey, Jerry,” Fearless replied.

  I nodded, noticing that I didn’t deserve a mister.

  “What you all doin’ here?” he asked, peering at a spot both above and between us.

  “As you know,” I began. “Useless Grant’s my cousin. . . .”

  I told an edited version of the story. There was no reason to mention Tiny or Jessa, stolen money, or the particulars of my meeting with Mad Anthony. I didn’t even tell Jerry that Useless’s mother was the one who had initiated our search.

  When I’d finished talking, Jerry was quiet for quite some time. Finally he sighed and glanced at Fearless.

  “You in this, Mr. Jones?” he asked.

  “All the way up to my elbows.”

  “Come on, then,” he said, turning toward the depths of his establishment.

  He guided us along an invisible path, between tables, to the wall opposite the entrance. There he opened a door and admitted us to his office.

  I had expected dazzling light, crystal chandeliers, mirrors on every wall. But instead Jerry’s office was almost as dim as the poolroom. There was a red lamp on the desk and weak blue radiance coming from the wall on my left, enough light for us to see the chairs we were meant to sit in.

  Jerry placed himself in the manager’s seat and lit up a cigarette without offering us one. I took out my own pack and shook it at my friend. Fearless waved away my wordless offer.

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  “Okay,” Jerry said. “Now, what does all this falderal got to do with me?”

  “I’m just worried about my cousin,” I said. “And I hear you been seein’ him on a regular basis.”

  “That’s business, Paris,” he said. “You know most people come in here don’t speak ten words the whole night.”

  “But you got eyes like a eagle and a owl,” I said. “You see ten times what normal men see and twice that at night.”

  “I ain’t seen nuttin’ on Ulysses Grant,” he said, and I knew by his use of my cousin’s proper name that he was lying.

  Fearless knew it too.

  “Look, Jerry,” my friend said, “we not tryin’ to get nobody in trouble. We not tryin’ to mess up nobody’s game. Paris here just need to talk to Ulysses, that’s all.”

  Jerry took a moment. He wasn’t considering the request, it was just that he was trying to show respect, that he was at least thinking about what Fearless was saying.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Jones,” Jerry said. “But you know I got a reputation to maintain. I don’t tell nobody’s business to nobody. If I was to talk to you it might get out. Ulysses might figure out how Paris fount him. An’ if he did, my whole game is out the windah.”

 
“When he came to my house he was worried for his life,”

  I said.

  “The last time I seen ’im he was just fine,” Jerry said.

  “When was that?”

  “Five days ago.”

  Jerry stared at me and Fearless, resolute in his conviction.

  Whether it was because he was committed to his reputation or some more intricate involvement with my cousin, I was not sure. But I did know that I had to break Mr. Twist’s resolve.

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  “Okay,” I said. “You know I don’t wanna make you do somethin’ go against your moral code. But I got to bring Three Hearts over here for you to tell her that.”

  “Three Hearts? What’s Three Hearts got to do with this?”

  Jerry was looking me directly in the eye.

  “That’s Useless’s mama, man. She got everything to do wit’ it.”

  “She, she down Louisiana,” he said.

  “Not no mo’,” Fearless said, nodding sagely.

  “She in L.A.?”

  “Right outside’a Watts,” I said. “I can have her here in twenty-two minutes — tops.”

  “I cain’t tell her nuthin’ more than I told you,” he whined.

  “Why she got to come here?”

  “That’s her boy,” I said reasonably. “He’s missin’ an’ you the last one seen ’im. You know Three Hearts gotta talk about that.”

  “Paris,” he begged, “you know that woman. You know what they say about her.”

  “An’ it’s all true,” I pronounced. “That’s why I’m’a bring her to you. I don’t want that evil eye on me.”

  Jerry gulped loud enough for us both to hear. He bit his lips and clasped his hands.

  Then he said, “This shit cain’t git out, man.”

  “You got our word,” Fearless said.

  I do believe a tear escaped Jerry’s eye.

  “Last time I seen Ulysses,” Jerry said, “he was worried that a man named Hector was after him. He told me that his girl, Angel, had turned against him and he was gonna have to run.”

  “Why he tell you?” I asked.

  “He needed money.”

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  “And you a bank?”

  A sour taste passed Jerry’s big lips and he looked to the left.

  Then he looked back at me and said, “Ulysses been fleecin’ rich white people. Blackmailin’ ’em, I think.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. All I do know is that he been bringin’ me money, lots of it, an’ I been helpin’ him put it into accounts that the IRS won’t see. You know, foreign shit.”

  “How you do that?”

  “That ain’t got nuthin’ to do with what’s goin’ on with Ulysses,” Jerry said.

  “Okay,” I said. “All right. What’s this guy Hector got to do with all this?”

  “Hector LaTiara,” Jerry said. “French-assed nigger. Think his shit don’t stink. I met him one time. He got somethin’ to do with Ulysses’ business, but don’t ask me what ’cause I don’t know.”

  “You know where he live at?” Fearless asked.

  Jerry just shook his head. His lips were hanging loosely, as if he had just run a desperate race and was exhausted.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “And I appreciate the information.

  Three Hearts will too.”

  “You keep that witch away from me,” Jerry said.

  “Don’t worry,” I promised. “I’ll keep her curses all to myself.”

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  O n t h e way o u t we were distracted by a pool game. A man made an exceptionally good 21 shot, sinking two balls and putting his shooter in prime position. Fearless put a hand on my arm and we waited until the player — a dark-skinned, elegantly dressed man —

  finished his run and the game. I was about to go when Fearless whispered, “Let’s see what this other dude could do.”

  The other player was light-skinned, fat, and sweating. He wore a flouncy Bermuda shirt with big purple and green patterns printed on it. He was smoking and drinking and seemed a little pixilated. But when he leaned over to shoot, he was all business.

  It was some match. If either guy got a clear shot the game was over. It was pool on a whole other plane than the one where I lived. These men were masters.

  We probably watched for two hours before I made to leave.

  Those men were going to play until sunrise, and I had things on my mind. Fearless could have stayed but he followed me out.

  M u m wa s g o n e by the time we got downstairs. So was the bulk of Ha’s crowd. I took a phone book from behind the cash 133

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  register and looked up Hector LaTiara. He lived on a street called Saturn.

  Harold Crier wished us good night at the door. Fearless and I wandered down the street. He had parked next to me in an empty lot there.

  “What you think about what Jerry said?” I asked Fearless.

  He shook his head. “You cain’t evah tell wit’ Jerry, man. He might be lyin’. He might be straight. I mean, I believe it about this Hector dude ’cause you knew his name anyway.”

  Fearless couldn’t read the newspaper without help, but he knew people. He could tell what a man felt by watching him blow his nose.

  “Yeah. But he called Useless Ulysses,” I said. “That means he got somethin’ goin’ with him.”

  “Doin’ business, like he said,” Fearless reasoned.

  “Naw. It’s more than that.”

  “Maybe. But maybe it don’t mattah. I mean, unless he killed Ulysses, why we wanna bother with him?”

  It was true.

  “You wanna go roust this Hector dude?” Fearless offered.

  It was maybe midnight.

  “I got my gun.”

  “Naw, man. We don’t know who’s up in the house with him, an’ there’s no reason to get on his bad side right off. Anyway, I’m tired. Ain’t got much sleep in the last few days.”

  Everything I was saying was true, but I had an ulterior motive.

  Fearless could see the deception on my face, but he didn’t challenge me.

  “Okay, man,” he said. “You know where I be in the mornin’.

  Call me when you need me.”

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  He jumped into Milo’s red Caddy and drove off in a great swoosh.

  I stood in that empty dirt-floored lot wondering how I got there. I looked down the street at Good News. The lights were still on, but the restaurant was closing down.

  There was no visible light from upstairs, but I knew that the men up there would be playing until six or seven. Somewhere Useless was either breathing or not breathing and Three Hearts was awake in her bed, fretting about her wayward son.

  And there I was: one kind of man in another kind of world.

  I d r o v e a r o u n d f o r a w h i l e because I didn’t know the neighborhood very well and because the street I was looking for was only one block long. It took me five minutes just to find it on the gas station map.

  When I finally got there I realized that the street was little more than an alley — I couldn’t park on it without blocking the road. So I put my auto on the cross street and walked down one side of the alley and back up the other. By then it was almost one thirty in the morning. My heart was pumping with anticipation and trepidation. The streets were empty, which made them perfect for a crime. I was alone, which made me the perfect crime victim.

  I saw no doorway that had what I wanted. I should have gone home, but I walked up and down the alley/lane again.

  Finally, in frustration I looked up and saw a crimson glow from a third-floor apartment.

  It was a lantern.

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  I climbed the stairs. Reaching the red light, I came upon a green door.

  I knocked and the door came open almost immediately.

  Mum had been lovely in her waitress getu
p but she was a knockout in her orange silk gown.

  “I wondered if you were going to come,” she said.

  “Not me,” I replied. “I been thinkin’ about this for a long time.”

  Mum had nothing on under the thin material. I wanted to take her in my arms right then, but I could tell by the way she held herself that she needed a different approach.

  She ushered me into a large room that was sumptuous; there was really no other word for it. The light was low but unlike Jerry Twist’s — you could still see. On one side there was a large bed covered by a canopy with gossamer violet-colored silk hanging down on three sides. Next to the bed stood an eight-foot mirror in a cherrywood frame. A red has-sock sat before the mirror; to its side was a small table covered with makeup containers, cream pots, brushes, and perfumes. I could imagine Mum sitting before her mirror, preparing herself for our rendezvous.

  The other side of the room had a low couch and table. The couch was golden with red pillows and the table was blond, set for drinks.

  Mum shut the door and came up close to me. She reached into my breast pocket and retrieved my cigarettes and matches.

  She put a cigarette between my lips and lit it. Then she guided me to the sofa and pressed until I sat.

  While she poured me a drink in a deep bowl of a glass, she said, “I’ve been waiting for a man to make me laugh.”

  She passed me the glass. Cognac. Good cognac.

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  “You just moved in here?” I asked.

  “I know how I like things,” she said.

  “I can see that.”

  “I want to give you pleasure, Paris,” she said.

  Why was in my chest, but he refused to make himself known.

  Mum sat next to me and gave me a kiss. It wasn’t as passionate as Loretta’s had been, but it was nice. We did that for a while: kiss and then sip fine liquor from the big glasses, then kiss some more. My hands wanted to feel her orange fabric, but she kept them down.

  After our third drink she lifted me by the elbows and brought me to another room. It was a bathroom with a huge freestand-ing, high-collared tub. It was filled with water. She tested it with a bare foot up to the ankle and then turned on the hot.