The Man in My Basement Read online

  The Man in My Basement

  Walter Mosley

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  THE MAN

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  IN MY BASEMENT

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  a n ove l

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  Walter Mosley

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  little, brown and company

  B o s t o n • Ne w Yo rk • L o n d o n R 28

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  Copyright © 2004 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.

  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.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Time Warner Book Group

  1271 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7595-0860-7

  First eBook Edition: January 2004

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  PART ONE

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  “Mr. Blakey?” the small white man asked.

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  I had answered the door expecting big Clarance May-15

  hew and his cousin Ricky. The three of us had a standing 16

  date to play cards on Thursday nights. I was surprised even 17

  to hear the doorbell because it was too early for my friends 18

  to have made it home from work and neither one of them 19

  would have rung the bell anyway. We’d been friends since 20

  childhood, since my grandparents owned the house.

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  “My house is your house,” I always said to Clarance 22

  and Ricky. I never locked the door because we lived in a 23

  secluded colored neighborhood way back from the high-24

  way. Everybody knows everybody in my neighborhood, 25

  so strangers don’t go unnoticed. If somebody stole some-26

  thing from me, I’d have known who it was, what kind of S 27

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  car he drove, and the numbers on his license plate before 2

  he was halfway to Southampton.

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  “Yes,” I said to the small, bald-headed white man in the 4

  dark-green suit. “I’m Blakey.”

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  “You have a stand-up basement, Mr. Blakey,” the white 6

  man told me.

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  “Say what?”

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  “Teddy Odett down at Odett Realty said that you had 9

  a basement where a man could stand fully erect, one that 10

  has electricity and running water.”

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  “This house isn’t for sale, mister.”

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  “Bennet. Anniston Bennet. I’m from Greenwich, Con-13

  necticut.”

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  “Well this house isn’t for sale, Mr. Bennet.” I thought 15

  the small man would hunch his shoulders, or maybe give 16

  me a mean frown if he was used to getting his way. Either 17

  way I expected him to leave.

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  “Oh yes,” he said instead. “I know that. Your family has 19

  owned this beautiful home for seven generations or more.

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  Mr. Odett told me that. I know it isn’t for sale. I’m inter-21

  ested in renting.”

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  “Renting? Like an apartment?”

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  The man made a face that might have been a smile, or 24

  an apology. He let his head loll over his right shoulder 25

  and blinked while showing his teeth for a moment.

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  “Well, not exactly,” he said. “I mean yes but not in the 27 S

  conventional way.”

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  His body moved restlessly but his feet stayed planted as 4

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  The Man in My Basement

  if he were a child who was just learning how to speak to 1

  adults.

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  “Well it’s not for rent. It’s just an old basement. More 3

  spiders down there than dust and there’s plenty’a dust.”

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  Mr. Bennet’s discomfort increased with my refusal. His 5

  small hands clenched as if he were holding on to a railing 6

  against high winds.

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  I didn’t care. That white man was a fool. We didn’t take 8

  in white boarders in my part of the Sag Harbor. I was try-9

  ing to understand why the real-estate agent Teddy Odett 10

  would even refer a white man to my neighborhood.

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  “I want to rent your basement for a couple of months 12

  this summer, Mr. Blakey.”

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  “I just told you —”

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  “I can make it very much worth your while.”

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  It was his tone that cut me off. Suddenly he was one of 16

  those no-nonsense-white-men-in-charge. What he seemed 17

  to be
saying was “I know something that you had better 18

  listen to, fool. Here you think you know what’s going on 19

  when really you don’t have a clue.”

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  I knew that there were white people in the Hamptons 21

  that rented their homes for four and five thousand dollars 22

  a month over the summer. I owned a home like that. It 23

  was three stories high and about two hundred years old. It 24

  was in excellent shape too. My father had worked at keep-25

  ing it up to code, as he’d say, for most of his life.

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  “I’m sorry, Mr. Bennet,” I said again.

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  “I’m willing to pay quite a bit for what I want, Mr.

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  Blakey,” the white man said, no longer fidgeting or wag-2

  ging his head. He was looking straight at me with eyes as 3

  blue as you please.

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  “No,” I said, a little more certain.

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  “Maybe this is a bad time. Will you call me when 6

  you’ve had a chance to think about it? Maybe discuss it 7

  with your wife?” He handed me a small white business 8

  card as he spoke.

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  “No wife, no roommate, Mr. Bennet. I live alone and I 10

  like it like that.”

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  “Sometimes,” he said and then hesitated, “sometimes 12

  an opportunity can show up just at the right moment.

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  Sometimes that opportunity might be looking you in the 14

  face and you don’t quite recognize it.”

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  It was almost as if he were threatening me. But he was 16

  mild and unassuming. Maybe it was a sales technique he 17

  was working out — that’s what I thought at the time.

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  “Can I call you later to see if you’ve changed your 19

  mind?” he asked.

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  “You can call all you want,” I said, regretting the words 21

  as they came out of my mouth. “But I’m not renting any-22

  thing to anybody.”

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  “Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Blakey.” The 24

  white man smiled and shook my hand just as if I had said 25

  yes to him. “That’s my office number in Manhattan on 26

  the card. I’d give you my home phone, but I work more 27 S

  than anything else. I hope I’ll be hearing from you. If not 28 R

  I will certainly call again.”

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  Before I could say anything else, the little man turned 1

  away and walked down to a Volkswagen, the new Bug, 2

  parked at the curb. It was a turquoise car that reminded 3

  me of an iridescent seven-year beetle.

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  He made a U-turn and sped away.

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  Across the street Irene Littleneck was watching from 6

  her porch.

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  “Everything okay, Mr. Blakey?” she called.

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  “Just a salesman, Miss Littleneck.”

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  “What’s he sellin’?”

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  “I didn’t even get to that,” I lied. “You don’t buy if 11

  you’re unemployed.”

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  Irene Littleneck, eighty years old and black as tar, 13

  flashed her eyes at me. All the way across the road those 14

  yellow eyes called me a liar. So I turned my back on them 15

  and went into the house.

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  “So you gonna call ’im?” Clarance Mayhew asked me.

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  “No.”

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  “Why not?” asked Ricky, who was no bigger than one 17

  of Clarance’s fat legs.

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  “I don’t have an apartment down there, man. I mean 19

  there’s junk been down there since my mother’s mother’s 20

  mother was a child.”

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  “You could clean it out,” Clarance said. His face was 22

  chubby and pear shaped. Underneath his chin was a crop 23

  of curly hair about an inch thick. Hair wouldn’t grow on 24

  his cheeks. That’s why the tan-colored man always looked 25

  about ten years under his actual age. “I mean you ain’t got 26

  no job so you ain’t got no money. You could clean up 27 S

  down there and make yourself somethin’ to pay that damn 28 R

  mortgage you took out.”

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  “You want a drink?” I replied.

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  “Hey.” That was Ricky’s way of saying yes. He was 2

  darker than his cousin but not nearly my color. When my 3

  uncle Brent used to see us coming, he’d say, “If it ain’t the 4

  three shit-colored patches on a tatty brown quilt.”

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  I pulled a bottle of Seagram’s from beside the wood 6

  chest where we played cards. I took a drink from the bot-7

  tle and then passed it to Ricky. We never used glasses un-8

  less Leonard Butts or Timmy Lee came over to play with 9

  us. Clarance, Ricky, and I had drunk from the same bot-10

  tle since we were babies in the crib.

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  We were playing blackjack for pennies and I was up 14

  $1.25. That meant I had $15.76 left to my name. One 15

  more bottle of whiskey and I’d be flat out of money.

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  “Lemme see some cards,” Clarance hissed off the back 17

  end of a deep draught of whiskey.

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  He threw down his three — a heart queen, a deuce, 19

  and a trey. Ricky slapped his cards facedown and took the 20

  bottle back. I showed two spades, a ten, and an ace.

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  “Shit,” said Clarance. “You got all the luck tonight.”

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  I raked in thirty-seven pennies, thinking about luck 23

  and waiting for the bottle.

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  My aunt Peaches would lend me the money to cover 25

  the monthly mortgage payment to the bank. I’d bor-26

  rowed on the house and Peaches wouldn’t let the property S 27

  slip out of family hands. But if I had to go to her, she’d R 28

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  give me all kinds of grief about how I should get a job and 2

  how disappoint
ed my father would have been to see me 3

  falling apart like I was.

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  I took another draught from the bottle. It felt nice.

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  Good whiskey smoothes out after the third sip. Clears the 6

  fuzz from behind your eyeballs and relaxes the spine. I’ve 7

  always liked to drink. So did Clarance and Ricky, who we 8

  sometimes called Cat.

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  “Wilson Ryder needs a man to help on those new 10

  houses he’s putting up,” Ricky said.

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  “Yeah?” I took another drink and realized that I was 12

  hoarding the liquor, so I passed it on to Clarance.

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  “Yeah,” Ricky said. “He’ll be down there tomorrow.

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  You should go ask ’im.”

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  “Yeah, maybe I will. Maybe so.”

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  “Maybe?” Clarance was shuffling the cards over and 17

  over again, the way he always did when he was getting 18

  high. “Maybe? Man, what you thinkin’? Like you some 19

  kinda prince don’t have to work? They will take this house 20

  from you, Charles. You gonna end up like old man Brad-21

  ford — sleepin’ in somebody’s garage, eatin’ day-old bread, 22

  and drinkin’ brand X.”

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  “Clara, baby,” I said, doing my impersonation of a half-24

  hearted lounge lizard. “What’s all this tough love, darlin’?”

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  Clarance had height to carry all that weight. He stood 26

  straight up and grabbed for me, but I pushed my chair 27 S

  back and scrambled out of his reach.

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  “Goddammit, asshole!” he shouted. “I told you not to 1

  call me that!”

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  “But, baby,” I pleaded with my hands clasped as if in 3

  prayer. “Clara, you tellin’ me I ain’t worthy.”

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  I knew calling his name in the feminine for the second 5

  time would end the card game. We used to tease Clarance 6

  in grade school by calling him Clarabell and then just 7

  Clara. He stood there shaking, looking as mean as he 8

  could manage.

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  I laughed. And for a moment there was a chance that 10

  we would fight. Not much of a chance, because Clarance 11

  knew he couldn’t take me. But we were both just high 12

  enough to act like fools.

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  Ricky put the bottle down and picked up his sweater.

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  When he stood, that was the signal for Clarance to turn 15

  around and leave. Ricky shook his head at me and fol-16

  lowed his cousin out the front door.

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  They’d left their piles of change on the table where we 18