Cinnamon Kiss
( Easy Rawlins - 10 )
Walter Mosley
C i n n a m o n K i s s
A L S O
B Y
W A LT E R
M O S L E Y
E A S Y R A W L I N S N O V E L S
Devil in a Blue Dress
A Red Death
White Butterfly
Black Betty
A Little Yellow Dog
Gone Fishin’
Bad Boy Brawly Brown
Six Easy Pieces
Little Scarlet
O T H E R F I C T I O N
R. L.’s Dream
Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned Blue Light
Walkin’ the Dog
Fearless Jones
Futureland
Fear Itself
The Man in My Basement
47
N O N F I C T I O N
Workin’ on the Chain Gang
What Next: A Memoir Toward World Peace Wa lt e r
M o s l e y
C i n n a m o n K i s s
L i t t l e , B r o w n a n d C o m p a n y N e w Y o r k
B o s t o n
Copyright © 2005 by Walter Mosley
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Little, Brown and Company
Time Warner Book Group
1271 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
Visit our Web site at www.twbookmark.com First eBook Edition: September 2005
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN: 0-7595-1434-8
For Ossie Davis,
our shining king
C i n n a m o n K i s s
1
So it’s real simple,” Mouse was saying. When he grinned the diamond set in his front tooth sparkled in the gloom.
Cox Bar was always dark, even on a sunny April afternoon.
The dim light and empty chairs made it a perfect place for our kind of business.
“. . . We just be there at about four-thirty in the mornin’ an’
wait,” Mouse continued. “When the mothahfuckahs show up you put a pistol to the back of the neck of the one come in last.
He the one wit’ the shotgun. Tell ’im to drop it —”
“What if he gets brave?” I asked.
“He won’t.”
“What if he flinches and the gun goes off?”
“It won’t.”
“How the fuck you know that, Raymond?” I asked my lifelong 3
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friend. “How do you know what a finger in Palestine, Texas, gonna do three weeks from now?”
“You boys need sumpin’ for your tongues?” Ginny Wright asked. There was a leer in the bar owner’s voice.
It was a surprise to see such a large woman appear out of the darkness of the empty saloon.
Ginny was dark-skinned, wearing a wig of gold-colored hair.
Not blond, gold like the metal.
She was asking if we needed something to drink but Ginny could make a sexual innuendo out of garlic salt if she was talking to men.
“Coke,” I said softly, wondering if she had overheard Mouse’s plan.
“An’ rye whiskey in a frozen glass for Mr. Alexander,” Ginny added, knowing her best customer’s usual. She kept five squat liquor glasses in her freezer at all times — ready for his pleasure.
“Thanks, Gin,” Mouse said, letting his one-carat filling ignite for her.
“Maybe we should talk about this someplace else,” I suggested as Ginny moved off to fix our drinks.
“Shit,” he uttered. “This my office jes’ like the one you got on Central, Easy. You ain’t got to worry ’bout Ginny. She don’t hear nuttin’ an’ she don’t say nuttin’.”
Ginny Wright was past sixty. When she was a young woman she’d been a prostitute in Houston. Raymond and I both knew her back then. She had a soft spot for the younger Mouse all those years. Now he was her closest friend. You got the feeling, when she looked at him, that she wanted more. But Ginny satisfied herself by making room in her nest for Raymond to do his business.
On this afternoon she’d put up her special sign on the front 4
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door: closed for a private function. That sign would stay up until my soul was sold for a bagful of stolen money.
Ginny brought our drinks and then went back to the high table that she used as a bar.
Mouse was still grinning. His light skin and gray eyes made him appear wraithlike in the darkness.
“Don’t worry, Ease,” he said. “We got this suckah flat-footed an’ blind.”
“All I’m sayin’ is that you don’t know how a man holding a shotgun’s gonna react when you sneak up behind him and put a cold gun barrel to his neck.”
“To begin wit’,” Mouse said, “Rayford will not have any buck-shot in his shooter that day an’ the on’y thing he gonna be thinkin’ ’bout is you comin’ up behind him. ’Cause he know that the minute you get the drop on ’im that Jack Minor, his partner, gonna swivel t’ see what’s what. An’ jest when he do that, I’ma bop old Jackie good an’ then you an’ me got some heavy totin’ to do. They gonna have a two hunnert fi’ty thousand minimum in that armored car — half of it ours.”
“You might think it’s all good and well that you know these guys’ names,” I said, raising my voice more than I wanted. “But if you know them then they know you.”
“They don’t know me, Easy,” Mouse said. He looped his arm around the back of his chair. “An’ even if they did, they don’t know you.”
“You know me.”
That took the smug smile off of Raymond’s lips. He leaned forward and clasped his hands. Many men who knew my murder-ous friend would have quailed at that gesture. But I wasn’t afraid.
It’s not that I’m such a courageous man that I can’t know fear in the face of certain death. And Raymond “Mouse” Alexander was 5
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certainly death personified. But right then I had problems that went far beyond me and my mortality.
“I ain’t sayin’ that you’d turn me in, Ray,” I said. “But the cops know we run together. If I go down to Texas and rob this armored car with you an’ Rayford sings, then they gonna know to come after me. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
I remember his eyebrows rising, maybe a quarter of an inch.
When you’re facing that kind of peril you notice small gestures. I had seen Raymond in action. He could kill a man and then go take a catnap without the slightest concern.
The eyebrows meant that his feelings were assuaged, that he wouldn’t have to lose his temper.
“Rayford never met me,” he said, sitting back again. “He don’t know my name or where I’m from or where I’ll be goin’ after takin’ the money.”
“And so why he trust you?” I asked, noticing that I was talking the way I did when I was a young tough in Fifth Ward, Houston, Texas. Maybe in my heart I felt that the bravado would see me through.
“Remembah when I was in the can ovah that manslaughter thing?” he asked.
He’d spent five years in maximum security.
“That was hard time, man,” he said. “You know I never wanna be back there again. I mean the cops would have to kill me before I go back there. But even though it was bad some good come out of it.”
Mouse slugged back the triple shot of chil
led rye and held up his glass. I could hear Ginny hustling about for his next free drink.
“You know I found out about a very special group when I was up in there. It was what you call a syndicate.”
6
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“You mean like the Mafia?” I asked.
“Naw, man. That’s just a club. This here is straight business.
There’s a brother in Chicago that has men goin’ around the country scopin’ out possibilities. Banks, armored cars, private poker games — anything that’s got to do wit’ large amounts of cash, two hunnert fi’ty thousand or more. This dude sends his boys in to make the contacts and then he give the job to somebody he could trust.” Mouse smiled again. It was said that that diamond was given to him by a rich white movie star that he helped out of a jam.
“Here you go, baby,” Ginny said, placing his frosty glass on the pitted round table between us. “You need anything else, Easy?”
“No thanks,” I said and she moved away. Her footfalls were silent. All you could hear was the rustle of her black cotton trousers.
“So this guy knows you?” I asked.
“Easy,” Mouse said in an exasperated whine. “You the one come to me an’ said that you might need up t’ fi’ty thousand, right? Well — here it is, prob’ly more. After I lay out Jack Minor, Rayford gonna let you hit him in the head. We take the money an’ that’s that. I give you your share that very afternoon.”
My tongue went dry at that moment. I drank the entire glass of cola in one swig but it didn’t touch that dryness. I took an ice cube into my mouth but it was like I was licking it with a leather strip instead of living flesh.
“How does Rayford get paid?” I asked, the words warbling around the ice.
“What you care about him?”
“I wanna know why we trust him.”
Mouse shook his head and then laughed. It was a real laugh, friendly and amused. For a moment he looked like a normal 7
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person instead of the supercool ghetto bad man who came off so hard that he rarely seemed ruffled or human at all.
“The man in Chi always pick somebody got somethin’ t’ hide.
He gets shit on ’em and then he pay ’em for their part up front.
An’ he let ’em know that if they turn rat they be dead.”
It was a perfect puzzle. Every piece fit. Mouse had all the bases covered, any question I had he had the answer. And why not? He was the perfect criminal. A killer without a conscience, a warrior without fear — his IQ might have been off the charts for all I knew, but even if it wasn’t, his whole mind paid such close attention to his profession that there were few who could outthink him when it came to breaking the law.
“I don’t want anybody gettin’ killed behind this, Raymond.”
“Nobody gonna die, Ease. Just a couple’a headaches, that’s all.”
“What if Rayford’s a fool and starts spendin’ money like water?” I asked. “What if the cops think he’s in on it?”
“What if the Russians drop the A-bomb on L.A.?” he asked back. “What if you drive your car on the Pacific Coast Highway, get a heart attack, and go flyin’ off a cliff? Shit, Easy. I could
‘what if ’ you into the grave but you got to have faith, brother. An’
if Rayford’s a fool an’ wanna do hisself in, that ain’t got nuthin’ to do with what you got to do.”
Of course he was right. What I had to do was why I was there.
I didn’t want to get caught and I didn’t want anybody to get killed, but those were the chances I had to take.
“Lemme think about it, Ray,” I said. “I’ll call you first thing in the morning.”
8
2
Iwalked down the small alleyway from Cox Bar and then turned left on Hooper. My car was parked three blocks away because of the nature of that meeting. This wasn’t grocery shopping or parking in the lot of the school I worked at. This was serious business, business that gets you put in prison for a child’s lifetime.
The sun was bright but there was a slight breeze that cut the heat. The day was beautiful if you didn’t look right at the burned-out businesses and boarded-up shops — victims of the Watts riots not yet a year old. The few people walking down the avenue were somber and sour looking. They were mostly poor, either unemployed or married to someone who was, and realizing that California and Mississippi were sister states in the same union, members of the same clan.
I knew how they felt because I had been one of them for more 9
W a lt e r M o s l e y
than four and a half decades. Maybe I had done a little more with my life. I didn’t live in Watts anymore and I had a regular job. My live-in girlfriend was a stewardess for Air France and my boy owned his own boat. I had been a major success in light of my upbringing but that was all over. I was no more than a specter haunting the streets that were once my home.
I felt as if I had died and that the steps I was taking were the final unerring, unalterable footfalls toward hell. And even though I was a black man, in a country that seemed to be teeter-ing on the edge of a race war, my color and race had nothing to do with my pain.
Every man’s hell is a private club, my father used to tell me when I was small. That’s why when I look at these white people sneerin’ at me I always smile an’ say, “Sure thing, boss.”
He knew that the hammer would fall on them too. He forgot to say that it would also get me one day.
I drove a zigzag side street path back toward the west side of town. At every intersection I remembered people that I’d known in Los Angeles. Many of those same folks I had known in Texas.
We’d moved, en masse it seemed, from the Deep South to the haven of California. Joppy the bartender, dead all these years, and Jackson the liar; EttaMae, my first serious love, and Mouse, her man and my best friend. We came here looking for a better life — the reason most people move — and many of us believed that we had found it.
. . . You put a pistol to the back of the neck of the one come in last . . .
I could see myself, unseen by anyone else, with a pistol in my hand, planning to rob a big oil concern of its monthly payroll.
Nearly twenty years of trying to be an upright citizen making an 1 0
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honest wage and it all disappears because of a bucketful of bad blood.
With this thought I looked up and realized that a woman pushing a baby carriage, with two small kids at her side, was in the middle of the street not ten feet in front of my bumper. I hit the brake and swerved to the left, in front of a ’48 wood-paneled station wagon. He hit his brakes too. Horns were blaring.
The woman screamed, “Oh Lord!” and I pictured one of her babies crushed under the wheel of my Ford.
I jumped out the door, almost before the car came to a stop, and ran around to where the dead child lay in my fears.
But I found the small woman on her knees, hugging her children to her breast. They were crying while she screamed for the Lord.
An older man got out of the station wagon. He was black with silver hair and broad shoulders. He had a limp and wore metal-rimmed glasses. I remember being calmed by the concern in his eyes.
“Mothahfuckah!” the small, walnut-shell-colored woman shouted. “What the fuck is the mattah wit’ you? Cain’t you see I got babies here?”
The older man, who was at first coming toward me, veered toward the woman. He got down on one knee even though it was difficult because of his bum leg.
“They okay, baby,” he said. “Your kids is fine. They fine. But let’s get ’em out the street. Out the street before somebody else comes and hits ’em.”
The man led the kids and their mother to the curb at Florence and San Pedro. I stood there watching them, unable to move.
Cars were backed up on all sides. Some people were getting out 1 1
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to see what had
happened. Nobody was honking yet because they thought that maybe someone had been killed.
The silver-haired man walked back to me with a stern look in his eye. I expected to be scolded for my careless behavior. I’m sure I saw the reprimand in his eyes. But when he got close up he saw something in me.
“You okay, mister?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to reply but the words did not come. I looked over at the mother, she was kissing the young girl. I noticed that all of them — the mother, her toddler son, and the six-or seven-year-old girl — were wearing the same color brown pants.
“You bettah watch out, mister,” the older man was saying. “It can get to ya sometimes but don’t let it get ya.”
I nodded and maybe even mumbled something. Then I stumbled back to my car.
The engine was still running. It was in neutral but I hadn’t engaged the parking brake.
I was an accident waiting to happen.
For the rest of the ride home I was preoccupied with the image of that woman holding her little girl. When Feather was five and we were at a beach near Redondo she had taken a tumble down a small hill that was full of thorny weeds. She cried as Jesus held her, kissing her brow. When I came up and lifted her into my arms she said, “Don’t be mad at Juice, Daddy. He didn’t make me fall.”
I pulled to the curb so as not to have another accident. I sat there with the admonition in my ears. It can get to ya sometimes but don’t let it get ya.
1 2
3
When I came in the front door I found my adopted son, Jesus, and Benita Flag sitting on the couch in the front room. They looked up at me, both with odd looks on their faces.
“Is she all right?” I asked, feeling my heart do a flip-flop.
“Bonnie’s with her,” Jesus said.
Benita just nodded and I hurried toward Feather’s room, down the small hallway, and through my little girl’s door.
Bonnie was sitting there dabbing the light-skinned child’s brow with isopropyl alcohol. The evaporation on her skin was meant to cool the fever.
“Daddy,” Feather called weakly.
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