Fear Itself Page 11

  “I said,” Miss Moore continued, “that you were next on the list. But you can’t expect me to be watching the tub and then running down here to tell you when it’s ready. I’ve been washing linens all morning. And then there’s dinner I have to prepare.”

  The landlady’s gaze drifted to Mr. Conroy’s stomach upon mentioning the meal. He hugged himself even tighter.

  “This is Mr. Hendricks, Mr. Conroy. He’s going to be with us for a week.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said.

  I held out my hand but he didn’t take it.

  “It’s that wicked girl Charlotta taken my bath,” Conroy said to me. “She will take your bath and pick your pocket if you don’t lock your door.”

  “Mr. Conroy, I will not have you bad-mouthing the other tenants.”

  “But she —”

  “Not another word. Come with me, Mr. Hendricks.”

  The stern property owner led me to the end of the hall, where there was a surprisingly wide staircase. We went up three flights and came to a small landing that had only one door. Miss Moore took a brass Sargent key from her apron pocket and worked it on the lock.

  It was a beautiful room, having a ten-foot ceiling and picture windows on either side. The bed was maple and stood two feet or more off the floor. The walls were painted a watery coral. Underneath the coat you could see the dim patterns of wallpaper that the painters had been too lazy to strip off. There was a big stuffed chair in one corner and a simple cherry table that could have been used for dining or as a desk in another. It even had a sink against one wall in case I got up in the middle of the night and needed to wash my face.

  Through one of the windows I could see the tops of houses all the way to the hills that separated L.A. proper from the valley. There were pine, palm, carob, and a dozen other varieties of trees and wide asphalt roadways with very little traffic on them. There were children playing in the streets and clotheslines heavy with the day’s cleaning in almost every backyard. Here and there an incinerator put out white smoke, and the sky was that deep blue that threatens to suck the breath right out of your lungs.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt that peaceful. I didn’t want to turn around and face the job of lying to the good landlady. My deepest desire was to somehow fly through that window and become a part of everything I saw. I wanted to be those streets and those children’s jump-rope song. I wanted to climb with those pale puffs of smoke into the blue sky and surrender like the white flags they resembled.

  “I threw out most’a the clothes and trash he left,” Miss Moore was saying. “You might find something here or there. If it’s trash throw it out, but if it could be sold you should turn it over to me so that I can try and make back the rent he stole.”

  I handed over the rent money. This left me with three singles and one two-dollar note—that and three Liberty quarters was all I had in my pockets.

  “I won’t be lookin’ too close,” I said. “Just sleepin’ and applying for work, that’s all it’ll be for me this week.”

  “The phone is not for tenant use,” Miss Moore said. “Dinner is at seven sharp, and you have to sign up for the bath.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “The big key is for the front door,” she said as she handed over two brass Sargent keys tied together with a dirty bit of string. “You can come in whenever you want but the house goes dark after ten, and you should be quiet when you come in late. I don’t like visitors, so if you want to entertain you have to tell me about it first.”

  “No cards and no girlfriends, Miss Moore. It’s the straight and narrow for me.”

  She smiled and squeezed my wrist and then left, closing the door behind her. I went back to the window and stayed there for a long time. It was nothing like my rural home in New Iberia, Louisiana, but there was the feeling of home there. I spent so much time in books that the natural world was often a surprise to me. It was a new world filled with people walking and laughing, living lives that didn’t seem to have any part of a larger story.

  There was a partly padded folding chair at the cherry table/ desk. I took it over to the east-facing window and sat down. Later I would search the room and question Kit’s fellow tenants. But right then all I wanted was to enjoy that unique moment where I was completely out of my life. No one but Fearless knew where I was.

  Fearless had brought me to that placid window. He drove the car, but he was also the reason I came; to find out what Kit Mitchell had been up to and where he had gone.

  Anyone who knew me and didn’t know Fearless would have been surprised that I would have put myself in such a potentially dangerous situation. To the world in general I was a law-abiding worrywart. I shied away from drugs and crap games, stolen merchandise and any scheme that might in any way be construed as unlawful. I never bragged (except about my sexual endowment), and the only time I ever acted tough was to shout at caged animals.

  But when it came to Fearless I was often forced to become somebody else. For a long time I thought that it was because he had once saved my life in a dark alley in San Francisco. And that certainly did have a big effect on my feelings toward him. But in recent months I had come to realize that something about Fearless compelled me to be different. Partly it was because I felt a deep certainty that no harm could come to me when I was in his presence. I mean, Theodore Timmerman should have killed me on that street, but Fearless stopped him even though it was impossible. But it was more than just a feeling of security. Fearless actually had the ability to make me feel as if I were more of a man when I was in his company. My mind didn’t change, and in my heart I was still a coward, but even though I was quaking I stood my ground more times than not when Fearless called on me.

  Possibly his strongest quality was calling out the strength in people around him.

  “And I’m gonna need that strength too,” I said to myself, thinking that if Kit Mitchell went off one day and then didn’t come back, the reason was more likely foul play than him running out on the rent.

  While I was having these thoughts a soft knocking came at the door.

  21

  MY HEART SKIPPED AND I STOOD UP from the chair. I opened the window and looked out to see if there was a way down to the street from the roof. There was a drainpipe at the end of a sloping tar paper flange. I weighed under one-thirty, so if anybody ever worked up there, then I could certainly scurry across.

  For a moment I considered running but then I took a deep breath. It was probably just Miss Moore coming to tell me about dinner or to make sure that I hadn’t found anything valuable between the mattresses or from some ledge that she was too short to examine.

  “Kit?” a woman’s small voice called.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “Who is that?” she replied.

  For a moment I forgot my alias, so instead I opened the door.

  The woman and her voice had very little in common. She was large and curvaceous, with dark olive skin.

  “Who are you?” she asked with a hint of disdain.

  “Thad,” I said, remembering as I spoke. “Thad Hendricks. I took over the room since the last man didn’t come back.”

  “That bitch,” the woman hissed. “Kit might be dead or in some hospital somewhere, and all she care about is her twelve dollars.”

  “Is that who used to be in here?” I asked. “I thought it was a man named Mitchell.”

  “That’s Kit’s last name,” the young woman replied. Then she smiled. A smile on her face was like the morning sun’s first rays on a mountainside. One moment she was dark and uninviting and the next she was a breathtaking beauty.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Charlotta.”

  “I heard about you,” I said.

  “From who?”

  “Fella named Conroy. Said you stole his bathwater.”

  “That fat fool. Somebody need to shut him up. Always complainin’ ’bout everybody, spreadin’ lies an’ stuff. What else he tell
you about me?”

  “Just about the bathwater,” I said, “and that you picked his pocket or somethin’ like that.”

  “Them high-yellah niggahs run around thinkin’ their shit don’t stink and everybody wants what they got. You know the only thing in his pockets is past-due bills and a busted watch. Now who would wanna take that?”

  “What’s your last name, Charlotta?” I asked.

  “Netters. I’m from the Tennessee Netters. Where you from, Mr. Hendricks?”

  Charlotta’s words were merely a question, but her tone and expression, even the way she stood, held the offer of something that kindled a spark way down in the pit of my stomach.

  “I’m a Louisiana boy,” I said. “Down where the peppers burn out your mouth and the gators grab children right offa their swings.”

  “I love hot food,” she said, with a lingering emphasis on the word love.

  I reached out with a single finger, touching her forearm ever so slightly.

  “And I love spicy women,” I said.

  Charlotta speculated on the sensitivity of my touch.

  “You wanna go down and get some dinner?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “But I think I might need my strength.”

  We walked side by side down the stairs and through the hallway. She bumped up against me now and then, not by mistake. When we got to the dining room all the seats but two were taken, and they were not together. I went to a chair between an older woman and a young man, while Charlotta made her way to a seat on the opposite side. She caught my eye now and then, smiling and pushing out her already protruding lips.

  Miss Moore sat at the head of the table while a young girl of thirteen or fourteen brought out the food on large serving trays. People were talking amongst themselves softly. The room was filled with the aroma of buttermilk biscuits that had been brought out and placed along the center of the table in three baskets. Miss Moore hardly had to raise her voice to get their attention.

  “Everybody,” she said. “I would like you to meet Mr. Hendricks. He’s only going to be with us for a week or so. He’s down from the Bay Area, looking for work before he gets married . . .”

  The last words raised Charlotta’s eyes a bit, but she didn’t seem bothered.

  “. . . he’s taking Kit Mitchell’s old room, and I hope the rest of you will help him out if he needs it. Mr. Hendricks, these will be your neighbors for the next seven days.”

  She went around the table with her eyes then, introducing my housemates. I didn’t remember most of their names, even then. There was Charlotta and Melvin Conroy, a young man merely named Brown, and an older gray-headed woman called Mrs. Mulrooney.

  “Welcome to the congregation, Brother Hendricks,” Brown said as he reached for a biscuit.

  “Brown, please,” Miss Moore said then. “Wait for grace.”

  The young man, who had a flat face and expressionless eyes, smiled and leaned back in his chair.

  “Mr. Hendricks,” Miss Moore said then. “Will you lead us?”

  I bowed my head and everybody around the table, and the serving girl too, bowed theirs.

  “Lord,” I said. “Bless this bounty and bless this house. Bless the people at this table who give thanks for your gifts, and bless the poor son lost from your light. Thank you for keeping us together and keeping us strong while we worship in your name and your teachings. Amen.”

  “Amen,” fourteen voices agreed.

  When I opened my eyes I saw Miss Moore smiling, Charlotta grinning, Mr. Conroy grimacing, and everyone else reaching for food.

  Dinner was comprised of chicken and dumplings, collard greens, creamed corn, and peach cobbler for dessert. Every bite was delicious and there was more than enough to go around. I found myself feeling sorry that I had used a false name to get my room. I would have gladly paid twelve dollars a week to eat like that every night. Living alone, I often settled for hamburgers or canned spaghetti.

  “That was a beautiful prayer, young man,” the older woman to my right said. “You must spend your Sundays with the Lord.”

  “I spend every day with him, ma’am.”

  “Brenda,” she said. “Mrs. Brenda Frail.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Frail,” I said.

  There was a lot of talking and jocularity at the table. It was the friendliness of strangers. The only thing we all had in common was our race. There were Negroes from one setting to another and not any three who were the same color. There was nothing unusual about that, though. Being black in America was the simple fact of not being white. From the high-yellow Mr. Conroy to almost black Brown we ranged. Anyone looking at me would say that I was dark of color, that is, unless I was standing next to Fearless, who had retained every pigment of his African heritage.

  Not one roomer was from Los Angeles originally. Most were from the South, but a few hailed from the Midwest. Everyone had at least one job. Most of the men had two. Even old Mrs. Mulrooney and Brenda Frail had part-time jobs, one at the five-and-ten and the other taking tickets at the Grand Avenue Cinema during the matinee.

  “How do you like your room?” a man whose name I’d already forgotten asked.

  “It’s fantastic,” I said. “I can’t imagine anybody not wantin’ to come home to that.”

  I was hoping to get a dialogue started on Kit Mitchell, but all I received was a grunt from Miss Moore.

  There were eight men, six women, and one girl. The oldest was seventy-four, that was Mrs. Mulrooney, and the youngest was Trina Harper, the serving girl. There was a mechanic, a chef, two domestics, two janitors, two waitresses, and a dry cleaner.

  After coffee I followed my new neighbors through a door into the sitting room. This room was furnished with three couches, a few stuffed chairs, two small gaming tables, and a rabbit-eared television set. There was also a rather large built-in bookcase with at least a couple of hundred books jammed in. I made a mental note to peruse the collection before moving on.

  “You look like a smart man, Mr. Hendricks,” the youth called Brown said to me.

  “Why thank you, Mr. Brown.”

  “Just Brown. That’s what everybody calls me. You play chess?”

  “I have played,” I admitted, “from time to time.”

  Brown held out two fists and smiled. I tapped the left one and he turned over a black pawn.

  “My favorite color,” I declared.

  Brown led us to the gaming table that had an inlaid checker and chess board. There he started setting up the board eagerly.

  “Nobody around here really play chess too much,” he said. “Mostly it’s just checkers and bid whist. Cards can be kinda fun, but you know chess is pure brain.”

  I felt a feathery touch on my forearm. Before I turned I knew it was Charlotta returning my earlier caress.

  “Can I talk to you a minute?” she asked me.

  She walked me to a small doorway that led into what can only be called an alcove.

  “You wanna have a drink with me?” she asked.

  “Yeah but I just started the game with Brown.”

  “That’s okay. I got to go buy a li’l bottle first anyway.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Good, I mean, I’d love to have a drink with you.”

  “I need two dollars for that and some pork rinds.”

  I forked over my last three singles and said, “Get yourself somethin’ sweet too, baby.”

  She smiled and brushed my lips with hers.

  I had to walk carefully back to the chess table to conceal the erection that Charlotta raised.

  22

  BROWN KNEW HIS CHESS. He beat me the first game because I underestimated him, gazing around the room and trying to overhear conversations as we played.

  That game was fast, us taking no more than thirty seconds for each move. But I got serious in the second go-round. I took my time at strategic moments and outmaneuvered him so that he had to give up when half the men were still in play.

  He won the third game. It was rar
e that anyone beat me twice in a night.

  Brown had worker’s hands and a hard look when he concentrated. At first glance I thought he was in his twenties, but then I could see where he was at least ten years older than that.

  “Where you from, Brown?”

  “Illinois originally,” he said. “But they tell me I was born in Mississippi.”

  “Jackson?”

  “Greenwood.”

  “Delta boy.”

  “I got the blues in my spit,” he agreed.

  “How long you been in L.A.?”

  “Two years. Most’a that time I lived down at Redondo Beach, workin’ on this mackerel fishin’ boat they got down there.”

  “How come you left?”

  “When I realized that I was gettin’ seasick on dry land, I knew it was time to leave fishin’ behind.” He had a nice, friendly laugh. “So I moved here to Miss Moore’s just a few days ago and got a job cleanin’ tuxedos and silk dresses.”

  Charlotta had returned from the store and was sitting next to Brenda Frail. They were working on a quilt together.

  Deciding to play with Brown turned out to be a mistake because of my pride. We traded wins back and forth for two hours, until the late news came on.

  Good evening, this is Bob Benning with KTLA news. The police were summoned to a grisly scene late this afternoon at the Bernard Arms Residence Hotel on Fountain. The body of Lance Wexler was found by police, who had been trying to get in touch with Mr. Wexler for the past three days. There was no sign of a break-in. Just two days ago Wexler’s sister was found dead in Griffith Park. She was also the victim of foul play. When asked about a connection between the two crimes, Captain Howard North told reporters that the police were looking into every detail of both homicides. . . . Maestro Wexler, oil distributor and real estate developer, offered a reward of ten thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of his children’s killers. . . .

  My heart was thundering by the end of the report. I wondered if the randy porter Warren had put together the delivery Negro at the back door and the death of his tenant. I worried that I might have left a fingerprint or maybe my wallet fell out on the toilet floor. I actually reached for my billfold to make sure that I still had it.