Cinnamon Kiss er-10

by Walter Mosley

  For a disguise Jackson buttoned the top button of his shirt, turned the lapels of his jacket up, and put on his glasses.

  “Jackson, you really think this is gonna work? I mean here you wearin’ a two-hundred-dollar suit. They gonna know somethin’s up.”

  “They gonna see my skin before they see anything, Easy. Then the flowers, then the glasses. By the time they get to the suit they minds be made up.”

  After he left I lay down across the backseat.

  There was an ache behind my eyes and my testicles felt swollen. Back when I was younger that pain would have been a point of pride. I would have worked it into street conversation.

  But I was too old to mask pain with bluster.

  After a few moments I fell into a deep slumber.

  Haffernon was standing there next to me. We were locked in a bitter argument. He told me that if he hadn’t done business with the Nazis then someone else would have.

  “That’s how money works, fool,” he said.

  2 8 8

  C i n n a m o n K i s s

  “But you’re an American,” I argued.

  “How could you of all people say something like that?” he asked with real wonder. “Your grandparents were the property of a white man. You can’t ever walk in my shoes. But still you believe in the ground I stand on?”

  I felt a rage growing in my chest. I would have smashed his face if a gun muzzle hadn’t pressed up against the base of his skull. Haffernon felt the pressure but before he could respond the gun fired. The top of his head erupted with blood and brain and bone.

  The killer turned and ran. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman, only that he (or she) was of slight stature. I ran after the assassin but somebody grabbed my arm.

  “Let me go!” I shouted.

  “Easy! Easy, wake up!”

  Jackson was shaking my arm, waking me just before I caught the killer. I wanted to slap Jackson’s grinning face. It took me a moment to realize that it was a dream and that I’d never find a killer that way.

  But still . . .

  “What you got, Jackson?”

  “Rega Tourneau is dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Died in his sleep last night. Heart failure, they said. They thought that I was bringing the flowers for the funeral.”

  “Dead?”

  “The lady at the front desk told me that he’d been doin’ just fine. He’d had a lot of visitors lately. The doctors felt that maybe it was too much excitement.”

  “What visitors?”

  “You got a couple’a hunnert dollars, Easy?”

  2 8 9

  W a lt e r M o s l e y

  “What?” Now awake, I was thinking about Rega Tourneau dying so conveniently. It had to be murder. And there I was again, scoping out the scene of the crime.

  “Two hunnert dollars,” Jackson said again.

  “Why?”

  “Terrance Tippitoe.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s one’a the attendants up in there. While I was waitin’ to see the receptionist we talked. Afterwards I told him I thought I knew how he could make some scratch. He be off at three.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Blue. That’s just what I needed.”

  “Let’s go get lunch,” he suggested.

  “You just ate a little while ago.”

  “I know this real good place,” he said.

  I flopped back down and he started the car. I closed my eyes but sleep did not come.

  “ y e a h , e a s y , ” Jackson was saying.

  I was stabbing at a green salad while he chowed down on a T-bone steak at Mulligan’s on Olympic. We had a booth in a corner. Jackson was drinking beer, proud of his work at the Westerly Nursing Home. But after the third beer his self-esteem turned sour.

  “I used to be afraid,” he said. “All the time, day and night. I used to couldn’t go to sleep ’cause there was always some fear in my mind. Some man gonna find out how I cheated him or slept wit’ his wife or girlfriend. Some mothahfuckah hear I got ten bucks an’ he gonna stove my head in to get it.”

  “But now you got a good job and it’s all fine.”

  “Job ain’t shit, Easy. I mean, I like it. Shoot, I love it. But the job ain’t what calms my mind. That’s all Jewelle there.”

  2 9 0

  C i n n a m o n K i s s

  He snorted and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

  “What’s the matter, Jackson?”

  “I know it cain’t last, that’s what.”

  “Why not? Jewelle love you more than she loved Mofass and she loved him more than anything before he died.”

  “ ’Cause I’m bound to fuck it up, man. Bound to. Some woman gonna crawl up in my bed, some fool gonna let me hold onta his money. I been a niggah too long, Easy. Too long.”

  I was worried about Feather, riding on a river of sorrow and rage named Bonnie Shay, scared to death of Joe Cicero, and faced with a puzzle that made no sense. Because of all that I appreciated Jackson’s sorrowful honesty. For the first time ever I felt a real kinship with him. We’d known each other for well over twenty-five years but that was the first time I felt true friendship for him.

  “No, Jackson,” I said. “None’a that’s gonna happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I won’t let it happen. I won’t let you fuck up. I won’t let you mess with Jewelle. All you got to do is call me and tell me if you’re feelin’ weak. That’s all you got to do.”

  “You do that for me?”

  “Damn straight. Call me anytime day or night. I will be there for you, Jackson.”

  “What for? I mean . . . what I ever do for you?”

  “We all need a brother,” I said. “It’s just my turn, that’s all.”

  t e r r a n c e t i p p i t o e

  was a small, dark-colored man who

  had small eyes that had witnessed fifty or more years of hard times. He had told Jackson to meet him at a bus stop on Sunset at three-oh-five. We were there waiting. Jackson made the introductions (my name was John Jefferson and his was George 2 9 1

  W a lt e r M o s l e y

  Paine). I set out what I needed. For his participation I’d give him two hundred dollars.

  Terrance was pulling down a dollar thirty-five an hour at that time and since I hadn’t asked him to kill anyone he nodded and grinned and said, “Yes sir, Mr. Jefferson. I’m your man.”

  A time was made for Jackson to meet Terrance a few hours later.

  Before Jackson and I separated back in Santa Monica, he agreed to lend me the two hundred.

  The world was a different place that afternoon.

  2 9 2

  45

  Iwent back to the hospital and got directions at the main desk to Bobby Lee’s new room. Sitting in a chair beside Lee’s door was an ugly white man with eyebrows, lips, and nose all at least three times too big for his doughy face. Even seated he was a big man. And despite his bulky woolen overcoat I could appreciate the strength of his limbs.

  As I approached the door the Neanderthal sat up. His move-ments were graceful and fluid, as if he were some behemoth rising from a primordial swamp.

  “Howdy,” I said in the friendly manner that many Texas hicks used. I didn’t want to fight this man at any time, for any reason.

  He just looked at me.

  “Easy Rawlins to see Robert E. Lee,” I said.

  “Right this way,” the brute replied in a melodious baritone. He rose from the chair like Nemo’s Nautilus rising from the depths.

  2 9 3

  W a lt e r M o s l e y

  Opening the door he gestured for me to go through. He tagged along behind — an elephant following his brother’s tail.

  Lee was sitting up in the bed wearing a nightshirt that wasn’t hospital issue. It had white-on-white brocade along the buttons and a stylish collar. Seated next to him was Maya Adamant. She wore tight-fitting coral pants and a red silk blouse. Her hair was tied back and her visage was nothing
if not triumphant.

  They were holding hands.

  “You two kiss and make up after the little tiff and trifling attempt at murder?”

  I felt the presence of the bodyguard behind me. But what did I care? It was gospel I spoke.

  “I told Robert everything,” Maya said. “I have no secrets from him.”

  “And you believe her?” I asked Lee.

  “Yes. I’ve realized a lot of things being so close to death. Lying here I’ve come to understand that my life has had no meaning for me. I mean, I’ve done a lot of important things for others. I’ve solved crimes and saved lives, but you know if someone is on a path to hell you can’t save them.”

  His mouth was still under the sway of the drugs they’d given him but I perceived a clear mind underneath the weave of me-andering thoughts.

  “She sent Joe Cicero to our meeting,” I said. “Then Joe emptied a clip into your chest. He almost killed you.”

  “She didn’t know that he’d do that. Her only desire was to get the bonds. She’s a woman without a man. She has to look out for herself.”

  “Wasn’t it your job to get the bonds and give them to Haffernon?”

  “He only wanted the letter.”

  2 9 4

  C i n n a m o n K i s s

  Those five words proved to me that Lee’s mind was running on all six cylinders. If I had become used to the idea of that letter, then I might not have noticed him slipping it in there.

  “What letter?” I asked.

  Lee studied my face.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” he said. “Haffernon is dead. I’ve received notice.”

  It was my turn to stare.

  “The only problem now is Joe Cicero,” Lee said. “And Carl here is working on that problem.”

  “Cicero can’t be in this alone,” I said. “He has to be working for someone. And that someone can always find another Chickpea.”

  Lee smiled.

  “I must apologize to you, Mr. Rawlins. When you first walked into my offices I believed that you were just a brash fool intent on pulling the wool over my eyes; that you only desired to make me do your bidding because I was a white man in a big house.

  But now I see the subtlety of your mind. You’re a top-notch thinker, and more than that — you’re a man.”

  I can’t say that the accolades didn’t tweak my vanity, but I knew that Lee was both devious and a fool, and that was a bad combination to be swayed by.

  “Can I speak to you alone?” I asked the detective.

  He considered a moment and then nodded.

  “Carl, Maya,” he said in dismissal.

  “Boss . . .” Big Carl complained.

  “It’s okay. Mr. Rawlins isn’t a bad man. Are you, Easy?”

  “Depends on who you’re askin’.”

  “Go on you two,” Lee said. “I’ll be fine.”

  Maya gave me a worried look as she went out. That was more of a compliment than all her boss’s words.

  2 9 5

  W a lt e r M o s l e y

  After the door was shut I asked, “Are you stupid or do you just not care that that woman sent an assassin after you?”

  “She didn’t know what he intended.”

  “How can you be sure of that? I mean you act like you can read minds, but you and I both know that there ain’t no way you can predict a woman like that.”

  “I can see that some woman has gotten under your skin,” he said, leveling his eyes like cannon.

  That threw me, made me realize that Bonnie was on my mind when I was talking about Maya. I could even see the similarities between the two women.

  “This is not about my personal life, Mr. Lee. It’s about Joe Cicero and your assistant sending him after you, after me. Now you and I both know that he’d have taken the same shots at me if I’d gone through that door first. And I don’t have no bulletproof vest.”

  “If what you told me is correct he needed you to gather information.”

  “Then he’d have grabbed me, tortured me.”

  “But that did not happen. You’re alive and now Joe Cicero will be under the gun. I shot him you know.”

  “How bad?” I asked.

  “It’s hard to say. He jerked backward and fired again. I let off another shell but he was running by then.”

  “Can’t say that he’s dead. Can’t be sure. And even if you could, and even if Carl gets him or the police or anybody else —

  that still doesn’t account for who’s doing all this.”

  “The case is over, Mr. Rawlins. Haffernon is dead.”

  “You see?” I said. “You see? That’s where you’re wrong. You think life is like one’a those Civil War enactments you got up in your house. People gettin’ killed here, Bobby Lee. Killed. And 2 9 6

  C i n n a m o n K i s s

  they’re dyin’ ’cause’a what Haffernon hired you for. They’re not gonna stop dyin’ just because you call the game over.”

  I have to say that Lee seemed to be listening. There was no argument on his lips, no dismissal in his demeanor.

  “Maybe you’re right, Mr. Rawlins. But what do you want me to do?”

  “Maybe you could work the Cicero-Maya connection. Maybe she could pretend that she still wants to work with him. Somehow we get on him and he leads us to his source.”

  “No.”

  “No? How can you just say no? We could at least ask her if it makes sense. Shit, man, this is serious business here.”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “What’s dangerous is tellin’ a hit man where your boss is goin’

  and not lettin’ your boss in on the change of plan. What’s dangerous is walkin’ out of a bar and havin’ some man you never met open fire on your ass.”

  “I can’t put Maya in danger.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’re to be married.”

  2 9 7

  46

  Ileft the hospital in a fog. How could he do that? Get engaged to a woman who not forty-eight hours before almost got him killed?

  “She almost took your life,” I’d said to him, floundering for sense.

  “But she’s always loved me and I never knew. A beautiful woman like that. And look at the way I was treating her.”

  “She could’a quit. She could’a demanded a raise. She could’a taken her damn phone off the hook. Why the fuck does she have to send a killer after you?”

  “She was wrong. Haven’t you ever been wrong, Mr. Rawlins?”

  o n t h e d r i v e b a c k

  to Santa Monica I was angry. Here I was so hurt by Bonnie, who with one hand was trying to save my little girl’s life and with the other caressing her new lover. Now 2 9 8

  C i n n a m o n K i s s

  Lee forgives attempted murder and then rewards it with a promise of marriage.

  I opened all the windows and smoked one cigarette after another. The radio blasted out pop songs that had sad words and up beats. I could have run my car into a brick wall right then. I wanted to.

  “ h e r e w e g o ,

  Easy,” Jackson said. “Here’s all the names in the register for the last week.”

  Terrance Tippitoe hadn’t been subtle in his approach. He’d torn out the seven sheets of paper in the guest log and folded them in four.

  I perused the documents for maybe twenty-five seconds, not more, and I knew who the mastermind was. I knew why and I knew how. But I still didn’t see a way out unless I too became a murderer.

  “What is it, Easy?” Jackson asked.

  I shoved the log sheets into my pocket, thinking maybe if I could implicate the killer in Rega Tourneau’s death then I could call in the cops. After all, I was on a first-name basis with Gerald Jordan, the deputy chief of police. I could slip him those sheets and the police could do the rest.

  “Easy?” Jackson asked.

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  That made me laugh. Jackson joined in. Jewelle came to sit b
ehind him. She draped her arms around his neck.

  “Nuthin’s wrong, Blue. I just gotta get past a few roadblocks is all. Few roadblocks.”

  Jackson and Jewelle both knew to leave it at that.

  *

  *

  *

  2 9 9

  W a lt e r M o s l e y

  i w a s n ’ t t h i n k i n g

  too clearly at that time. So much had happened and so little of it I could control. I had to have a face-to-face with Cicero’s employer. And in that meeting I had to make a decision. A week ago the only crime I’d considered was armed robbery, but now I’d graduated to premeditated murder.

  Whatever the outcome it was getting late in the evening, and anyway I couldn’t wear the same funky clothes one day more. I figured that Joe Cicero had better things to do than to stake out my house so I went home.

  I drove around the block twice, looking for any signs of the contract killer. He didn’t seem to be there. Maybe he was dead or at least out of action.

  I took the bonds from the glove compartment of my hot rod and, with them under my arm, I strode toward my front yard.

  Tacked to the door was a thick white envelope. I took it thinking that it had to have something to do with Axel or Cinnamon or maybe Joe Cicero.

  I opened the door and walked into the living room. I flipped on the overhead light, threw the bonds on the couch, and opened the letter. It was from a lawyer representing Alicia and Nate Roman. They were suing me for causing them severe physical trauma and mental agony. They had received damage to their necks, hips, and spines, and she had severe lacerations to the head. There was only one broken bone but many more bruised ones. They had both seen the same doctor — an M.D.

  named Brown. The cost for their deep suffering was one hundred thousand dollars — each.

  I walked toward the kitchen intent on getting a glass of water.

  At least I could do that without being shot at, spied on, or sued.

  I saw his reflection in the glass door of the cabinet. He was coming fast but in that fragment of a second I realized first that 3 0 0

  C i n n a m o n K i s s

  the man was not Joe Cicero and second that, like Mouse, Cicero had sent a proxy to keep an eye out for his quarry. Then, when I was halfway turned around, he hit me with some kind of sap or blackjack and the world swirled down through a drain that had opened up at my feet.