Rupert hit me again—this time a little harder.
“Don’t knock him out, Rupe,” Beam said. “I need him to talk. Hold him for me.”
Rupert tried to grab me by the hair but it was too short. So then he pushed his hands against my forehead. I let my eyes loll open but didn’t focus them.
“Who are you?” Beam asked. He was wearing a yellow suit. The brightness of the fabric hurt my eyes. “Who are you?”
“Arlen,” I said. “Arlen Coleman.” I let my head fall again. I almost slipped down to the floor but Rupert grabbed me and set me straight.
At least I knew that I wasn’t tied up. I was free. Free to die any way I pleased.
“Why were you asking about Roman and Holland Gasteau in my club, Mr. Coleman?”
I let my eyes settle on Beam for just one moment. I wasn’t looking at him though. I wanted to see where I was.
It was a toolshed. Hoes, shovels, and spades lay up against the walls. A bare bulb hung down on a cord from the ceiling. My nostrils opened up to take in the scents of earth and fertilizer.
There was a better than even chance that I’d die in that hut.
“Roman told me he had a job for me.”
“What kind of job?”
“He didn’t say. Just that it might get a li’l rough. But I told him I like it like that.”
“Rough how?” Beam asked.
“He didn’t say.” I feigned another swoon.
Beam slapped me that time. “Wake up!”
I shook my head and brought my hands to my eyes.
“Where are you from, Mr. Coleman?” Beam said loudly.
“San Diego, San Diego.”
“And what did you do down there?”
“Boostin’ mainly.” I let my head sag down to my knees. I moaned with pain that I actually felt.
“You should have stayed down south, Mr. Coleman,” Beam said. It was a final sentence. He was through asking questions.
I should have been thinking of a way to talk myself out of there. I should have told my true story, all of it. About Sojourner Truth and Mrs. Turner and Sergeant Sanchez. But I was silent—dumb. All I could think about was Mouse.
Mouse who saw everything and anything as the means to his survival. The dirt on the ground, his bodily functions. Thinking about Mouse and his drive to survive flowed through me like molten steel. I stood straight up and yelled, “What the fuck’s goin’ on here!” I reached for Beam, not expecting to grab him. I wilted before Rupert’s fist reached me, throwing myself backwards as the punch connected. I had hoped to hit the plank wall hard enough to go through it but when that didn’t happen I fell, seemingly senseless, to the ground.
Rupert kicked me once in the back but stopped after that.
“Go get the car,” Beam said.
It would have been grand if I could have waited for Beam to say, “Okay, kill him now,” as my cue to move. But that only happens on the TV, where they also play a musical warning before you die.
There was no time for me to get to my feet. I grabbed a straight-bladed spade by the metal end and swung it around without looking. The groan I heard satisfied me more than I can say. I rose quickly to my knees and threw the spade, handle first, like a spear at Beam’s head. Li’l Joe was coming at me with one hand down at his crotch. Rising on my left foot, I drove the best right uppercut of my life under his chin.
Beam was half the way down to the floor but he was reaching for something in his pocket. Behind him was my freedom. I ran right into the yellow-clad gangster, knocking him on his back and stomping over his body as I made it to the door.
I came outside near the White Chantilly Club. Running past the young valets, I made it through the front gate. I went down the first driveway across the street and started my evasive maneuvers. I climbed over one fence after another. I landed in a swimming pool. I ran into a guard dog in one yard. He was going to do me some serious harm, or so he thought. But I tore out a dwarf palm frond and whipped it through the air yelling, “Lunatic!” as I ran at him. He tucked his tail and wailed back to whatever kennel he could find.
Lights came on in the houses I left behind but I kept moving through the dark wet leaves and silent yards ahead.
By the time I was back in civilization I was wet, with torn clothes and torn skin. I was breathing hard and the cold of evening went all the way through to my bones.
The streets were empty but I hurried along just the same. Any policeman would arrest a man like me on the street. I went down Whitley, past Los Feliz, and on to Hollywood. There I found a discreet phone booth at the side of a newspaper and magazine stand.
The number was stored in my finger, I guess, I hadn’t called it in over two years.
“Hello?” He didn’t sound as if he’d been asleep.
“John?”
“Easy? What’s wrong?”
“You got to come get me, man,” I said.
“Where are you?”
CHAPTER 27
HALF AN HOUR LATER John drove by with the door already open. I ducked in and he handed me a half pint of bourbon. I took a hit of it before I remembered that I’d quit drinking. I held the bottle away from my face and thought about tossing it out of the window.
Instead I took another long draft.
Then I threw it.
“What you do that for?” John asked.
“Taste too good to me, man. Too good.” I felt the heat of the whiskey doing its work on my body. So many things I had missed.
While John drove I couldn’t bring myself to talk. He didn’t press me.
We drove to his house and pulled up into the driveway. There was another car parked further up but I didn’t give it a thought.
Even in the dark I noticed that the lawn was trim and healthy. There were large ferns on either side of his front door.
“You fixin’ up around here, man?” I asked.
“Shh.” He brought a finger to his lips as he turned the lock on the door.
When we came in I expected him to turn on a light but instead he whispered, “We got to go down to the back.”
We went through the sitting room up front and then down the long hall that led to his “recreation room” toward the back of the house. We were halfway there when a light snapped on and a woman’s voice called out, “Johnny?”
Johnny?
“It’s okay, Alva. It’s just a friend’a mines come by.”
“At four in the morning?”
John and I both turned.
From first glance I knew that Alva was John’s perfect mate.
John was an intense man. He was good-looking as looks go but if somebody asked you was he handsome you might say no because his hard stare made him seem intimidating and remote.
Alva was his complement. Tall and striking, her lips would have left their impression on bone. Even in that chiffon robe she seemed to be an ebony statue striding toward us down that hall.
“He got some trouble, Alva,” John explained.
“Who?”
“Easy Rawlins, ma’am. Pleased to meet ya.”
“Easy,” she said, looking me up and down. “I think they named you wrong, honey.”
All three of us grinned.
“Easy an’ I gotta talk, Alva,” John said.
“You hungry, Mr. Rawlins?” she asked me.
“Well, I better eat anyway.”
“You two go on down there an’ I’ll come in a while.”
JOHN’S RECREATION ROOM was where he had friends come. There were six chairs that he’d made himself from old-time beer barrels, a bar, and a Navajo rug on the cement floor. He offered me another drink but I refused it. (But I wanted it too.)
I told him the whole story from back to front; everything except for Grace and Bill Bartlett. I hadn’t seen John in a while and so he was surprised to hear that EttaMae worked for me. He was shocked to hear that Mouse had a job.
“I heard about him killin’ Sweet William,” John said. “You know back where I come from we wo
ulda put that boy down.”
“That’s why he left outta where you come from, John. But you know he’s changed. Few days ago he was talkin’ about church.”
“Church?”
“You know the Gasteaus?” I asked, suddenly needing to get back to my problems.
“Met’em.”
“Met’em where?”
“It was Holland mostly. You know, he was tryin’ t’act all flashy and cool. Come in with a tramp on each arm and spendin’ all kindsa money. Big mouth too. One time he come in wit’ his brother. Made a big deal over him at first but then he started tearin’ him down. You get some people like that, Easy. They get a couple’a drinks in’em an’ some kinda shit come out. Holland wanted to arm wrestle, that kinda shit.
“But you know Roman was cool. He just laughed it off. That niggah had some cold in him. Cold.”
“You mean Roman?” I asked.
John nodded.
“I heard that Roman was sellin’ heroin.”
“Could be. That niggah’d do anything. Anything.”
“But you don’t know nuthin’ else?”
“Naw, Easy. I don’t wanna know. I don’t like the life no mo’. That’s why I’ma sell the bar.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. I bought these three lots over on Rice. I’ma build me some houses over there.”
“No jive?”
“I hope you like eggs, Mr. Rawlins.” Alva was coming in the door. On a cork-inlaid tray she had a plate with scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, and dark buttered toast. There was a cup of coffee too.
Alva knew how to cook but that was only window dressing on a woman like her. If she had the strength of mind and spirit to pull John out of the sour funk of his life; if she could get him out of the bar business and into gardens and building houses—then she was Helen and Cleopatra in one.
I was hungrier than I knew. John and Alva sat patiently while I devoured her meal.
When I was finished John asked, “What do you need, Easy?”
“A car and five hundred dollars.”
Alva cut her eyes at John. She knew that he never lent money to anyone.
Maybe that’s why she looked surprised when he handed his keys over to me and said, “You can take my Ford. I got the money in the room. Come on. I think I got somethin’ fit you too.”
UPSTAIRS IN JOHN’S ROOM I tried on a woolen sports coat and a pair of heavy wool slacks. The jacket was loose and I needed to punch another hole in John’s leather belt to keep the pants up around my waist.
I looked like a hipster from the forties in my baggy clothes.
“Where’d you meet Alva?” I asked him after I finished with my wardrobe.
“At Omar’s wedding.”
Omar’s father, Odell Jones, was one of my best friends. It hurt to hear that he had thrown a wedding for his son without inviting me. But I understood why. Odell was a good friend but we both knew that when he called on me it would be because of trouble. He probably thought that it would have been a bad omen for me to show up at the service.
He might have been right.
“Yeah,” John was saying. “Omar met his girl down in Arkansas. He was doin’ riggin’ work for a oil company an’ then he met Cordelia. He knew right away that he was going to get married and brought her back up here. Cordelia had Alva come to be her maid of honor.
“Odell asked me to cater an’ bartend. I seen Alva once an’ that was it.”
John’s words were so heartfelt that I hesitated to ask my next question.
I hesitated but I did not fail.
“You heard from Grace lately, John?”
All of the dark reserve flowed back into John’s face. He didn’t have to utter a threat for me to choose my next words with care.
“I got to know, man. Listen, you remember that man she was in trouble with? That Bill Bartlett? He’s connected to this trouble I’m in. Somehow he’s in it.”
“How?”
“You don’t wanna know.”
John trusted my judgment. He knew I wasn’t trying to fool him.
“I heard she was doin’ smack,” he said. “That she got mixed up with some bad folks after that white man put her down.”
“The Gasteau brothers?”
“I don’t know, Easy. And like I said, I don’t wanna know.”
“I might have to call on you again, John.”
“You can call, brother,” he said. “But we’ll have to see if I come.”
CHAPTER 28
I WANTED ANOTHER DRINK. Canadian Club whiskey—no ice, no chaser. Straight up and straight down. But instead I stayed in John’s Ford outside of Bonnie Shay’s apartment building. It was a hair past five and I figured that if I waited long enough she’d appear. I didn’t want to go into any more hallways or apartment buildings. I didn’t want any more surprises.
I wanted to surprise somebody else for a change.
And I wanted some whiskey.
The sun was far off somewhere. The edge of the world had begun to glow orange. I planned to be home before Jesus and Feather woke up. But if I didn’t make it in time I knew that Jesus would be up to dress and feed Feather; she’d be there to hug him and kiss him good morning. I had children who were more adult than I was. Jesus didn’t have an after-school job because he was always taking care of us.
A small gray bus pulled up in front of Miss Shay’s apartment building. It had the words AIR FRANCE stenciled across its side in blood-colored paint.
Bonnie Shay, in a sleek little uniform, got out and put down two small bags. Somebody said something from one of the windows. Bonnie laughed and waved. When the bus drove off she bent down to pick up her bags.
“Miss Shay!” I yelled out of my window. I got out and stood across the street waiting for her reply.
“Yes?” She didn’t recognize me at first.
“I was given a letter by Idabell to give to you. I wanted to ask you what this was all about, so I waited here.” I held the letter up over my head.
If I was out to hurt her I could have slipped from my car and hit her over the head, she knew that. But maybe, maybe I was slick and wanted to get her into the car with me. She looked at the bags she had hanging from either hand, then put them down and waved for me to come over.
“Thank you,” I said as I came up to her.
I handed her the letter and she read it. Then she read it again.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “She said that she had to get out of town but she didn’t say why. She just left her dog with me and went.”
“She left Pharaoh with you?”
It was a mistake to mention the dog, I knew that as soon as it was out of my mouth. But I had to go with it once it was out.
“Yeah. Yeah, she said that she didn’t know where she was going first and that she was going to go by bus. I told her that the dog wasn’t gonna like his cage for weeks on end. I said that I could take him, or give him to you, until she sent for him.”
“They don’t allow pets in my building, Mr. Rawlins.”
“Oh. Tell me, Miss Shay, what’s goin’ on?”
Her eyes narrowed just a bit and she said, “Do you want a cup of coffee?”
“Sure thing.”
Her apartment was designed for what they call architectural efficiency. That is to say, the most rentable space with the least waste—or comfort. One big square room was the living space. Tucked off in the corner, behind half walls, was the small open kitchen. Her bedroom, I suspected, was exactly half the size of the living room so another bedroom for the apartment next door could neatly fill in the gap.
There was an Air France poster on the wall. It was a cartoonish drawing of Paris with a bright blue gendarme twirling his whiskers while ogling a pretty brunette. The Eiffel Tower was falling on them, or so it seemed to me. Along the floor were dark African carvings; all of them of women with pointed breasts and “outie” belly buttons.
She put her bags down, went into the kitchen, an
d flipped the on switch of her electric coffee percolator. She’d probably set it up with grounds when she left so that there would be coffee waiting almost when she came in the door. Her life seemed simple and elegant to me.
“Excuse me,” she said. “But I have to wash up a little before I can sit down.”
She went through the door to the other room, closing it behind her. She could have been making a call to somebody dangerous. But there was nothing I could do about that.
The coffee smelled strong. French roast.
I heard a toilet flush and then water running. The building was constructed from the kind of cheap materials that allowed you to hear mice sneezing through the walls and ants tramping across the floor above.
When she came out she had changed into a one-piece lime dress. It revealed her womanly figure without a lot of fanfare or too much sex.
“You work for the airlines?”
“Air France. I’m a stewardess.”
“You just comin’ back from there now?”
“Uh-huh.” She was concentrating on the coffeemaker. “Sugar and cream?”
“Black,” I said.
She gave me a smile with the cup.
“What do you want to know, Mr. Rawlins?”
“I’m a simple man, Miss Shay. I’m a head custodian for the Board of Education and I own a few apartment buildin’s here and there …” I stopped myself. That was the first time in my life that I told somebody about what I had just in conversation. Where I came from you kept everything a secret—survival depended on keeping the people around you in the dark. The tenants in my buildings didn’t know that I owned them. The government didn’t know where I got my money from. Nobody I worked with knew, with the exception of Etta and Mouse. The cops knew but I’d been on intimate, if dicey, terms with them for over a decade.
I blamed my slip on the whiskey and I swore silently never to take another drink.
“Mr. Rawlins?”
“Yeah?”
“You were saying?”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah. I go in to work one day and Idabell comes crying to me that her husband wants to kill her dog. The next thing I know her brother-in-law is dead—right there on the school grounds—and her husband gets shot at their house. She disappears, and then when she calls me she says that she’s runnin’ away.”
A Little Yellow Dog er-5 Page 21
