Fear Itself fjm-2 Read online

  The first line of the first page read:

  I am Gheeza Manli daughter of Menzi and Allatou born into slavery in the year of the devil seventeen hundred and two . . .

  Much of what Gheeza wrote was difficult to make out, while many sections were completely impossible for me to read. She wrote in extraordinarily small script. Her entries went on for about forty pages, telling something of her impossible tale and interrupting that story now and then to tell of births, deaths, and smaller or larger crimes committed against her or that she committed against her masters. Gheeza had a daughter named Asha. Asha took over the duty of maintaining the entries on page forty-two.

  Asha was called Mary by her slave masters, as her mother Gheeza was called Tulip by the same owners. The book was their story, kept secret from the world of their masters. The book was bound by Tellman, who had been from a long line of binders of prayer books for the people of the kingdom of Ethiopia.

  A floorboard creaked somewhere in the rambling rooming house. I pushed the westerns and Mr. Amso’s book back into the shelf any way they would go, hugged the handmade book to my chest, and covered it with a pillow from the sofa. Then I hurried down the hall and up the stairs with the treasure clutched so tightly that my arms ached from the effort.

  Once in my room I wedged a chair against the doorknob, remembering for a moment that I had done the same thing in Lance Wexler’s apartment. I turned on the overhead light and pored over the three hundred pages of animal skin that had been scrawled upon by more than a dozen hands. Now and then there were drawings of plantation houses and slave quarters, of agricultural machines and torture devices used on slaves. From 1781 to 1798 Moses, the only male diarist, also drew and painted pictures of his parents, grandparents, his wife and children. He entered twenty-three colorful pictures in all, and while they were crude there was still something poignant and dignified about the dark faces in their slave clothes and quarters.

  The last entry was in 1847 by Abathwa, daughter of Elthren, daughter of Moses. All of these names were secret appellations given in private ceremonies when the masters were sleeping. On the last page Abathwa referred to another book that would be used to continue the memories of the kinfolk of Africa.

  At first I thought that the book was some kind of fiction, that it was created by some artist, or more probably artists, trying to create a history out of the tragedy of slavery. But there was no questioning that the book was at least over a hundred years old. And there was no reason to doubt that it went all the way back to the eighteenth century as it claimed.

  But what was it doing in a boardinghouse library in black L.A.?

  It couldn’t belong to Miss Moore. She wouldn’t have left such a treasure in a public room. Maybe the house belonged to someone else, or maybe the previous owner had inherited the book from a long line that stretched all the way back to the ancient African kingdoms.

  As the hours passed I put together what I felt was the probable history of the book. It was definitely an artifact from the days of slavery, though possibly not as old as it seemed. It had been passed down with subsequent volumes to some man or woman who came into possession of Miss Moore’s house earlier in the century. This man or woman had hidden the book and then grew old and senile. So the book sat there in its hiding place behind the ever-changing row of popular novels until I came upon it.

  So if it wasn’t Miss Moore’s book then it was fair game for me.

  It was nearly five in the morning when I closed the covers and still I hadn’t worked out ten solid pages of text. I imagined spending the next year in my little shop deciphering the entries of those long-ago slaves.

  I forgot all about Fearless and Milo, about the murderous Mr. Timmerman and the dead Wexler siblings. I forgot about the Watermelon Man and the strange Fine sisters who lived in luxury and in squalor. That’s what a good book will do for me. It doesn’t make me into a brave man exactly but just erases all vestiges of fear.

  24

  I FELL ASLEEP WITH THE SUNRISE, amid the sounds of the tenants getting ready to go off to work. The smell of coffee wafted up into my room, but I was too tired to climb down the stairs. And even if I hadn’t been so weary I wouldn’t have left my book. It was the most precious thing I had ever seen or touched.

  I slept until after nine o’clock. When I had to go to the bathroom I took the book with me, wrapped in a pillowcase. I didn’t go out of the room except for that one time.

  Thieves are the people most afraid of being robbed.

  I put the book under the bed and sat at the window, waiting and planning. I figured out how I was going to smuggle my treasure out of Miss Moore’s rooming house, and where I could hide it until Fearless’s problems had been solved.

  After that I started to think about Bartholomew Perry. If I could find him what should I do? Milo would want me to report to him. Winifred L. Fine would also expect an accounting. Of course, there was Leora Hartman, Kit Mitchell, and, most of all, the Los Angeles Police Department that I had to be concerned with.

  I needed BB to talk to me, and that meant I needed Fearless. Fearless to keep BB from running away and Fearless to help me understand. That was because even though I knew the majority of words in the English dictionary, it was Fearless who understood the twists and turns of the human heart.

  But before any of that came to pass I needed Charlotta.

  She came to my door at three. I gave her a weak kiss. That’s because my passions weren’t under the covers but under the bed with my book at that particular moment.

  “Did you find out where he is?” I asked her.

  “Don’t you wanna kiss me some more, baby?” she replied.

  “After I get my fifty dollars I’ll kiss you from your toes to your ears and everywhere in between,” I said. “But let me get this pistol from out my back first.”

  “You promise?” she asked.

  “You got skin like honey,” I said, “only it taste better’n that. I just need to make sure I live long enough to enjoy it.”

  She gave me a small piece of paper that had an address and phone number on it.

  “I had to lie to a man to get that,” she said.

  “To whom?” I asked, falling a little bit out of character with my language.

  “Well, you know Kit told me that BB loves Sister Sue’s Chicken and Ribs. An’ they deliver. I went over there an’ told Rooney, the delivery man, that BB had made me pregnant and I had to get to him to help me fix it before it was too late.”

  “And he believed that?”

  “You got his numbers in your hand.”

  “Well, it’s gonna be worth it,” I replied. “But can you do me one more favor?”

  “What?”

  “You got a suitcase in your room? Just a small one, or maybe a hatbox?”

  “Yeah. How come?”

  “I’ll make your cut twenty dollars if you let me borrow it.”

  I once read a book that claimed mathematics is the universal language of mankind—but I never believed it. Money is the talk of the world. Charlotta ran down to her room and got back with a small powder blue suitcase that had red heart decals along the side.

  I kissed her and hurried her off. Then I packed my bound booty under one of Miss Moore’s spare sheets.

  MY EFFORTS WERE NOT WASTED. The landlady was waiting at the front door when I got there.

  “Are you just getting out of bed, Mr. Hendricks?” She used a sweet voice to ask her question, but I could tell from the way she spaced her words that it was a test of my moral fiber.

  “I spent the whole day writing wedding invitations on paper I borrowed from that nice Charlotta Netters,” I said, “one hundred and nineteen. She let me use her suitcase to take ’em down to the post office.”

  “She already started her mess on you, huh?” Miss Moore asked and answered.

  I knew that bringing up Charlotta would keep the landlady from questioning my suitcase. No older woman would ever like Charlotta. She was like an overripe peach o
n your favorite tablecloth—bound to leave a stain.

  I CALLED AMBROSIA’S HOUSE from a phone booth a few blocks away and got Fearless after only a few curses. I told him where to pick me up. He was there in less than ten minutes.

  “Open up the trunk, Fearless.”

  “What for?”

  “I need to keep this suitcase back there while we runnin’ the streets.”

  “What you got in there?” Fearless asked.

  “A book I picked up for my antiquarian collection.”

  “Your what?”

  “The collection I just started. This is the first book.”

  IF CHARLOTTA’S INFORMATION WAS RIGHT, then Bartholomew was staying in a room above a drugstore on Jefferson. Fearless and I went to the address and sat out front in Ambrosia’s Chrysler. We didn’t have much to talk about on the ride over. Fearless had spent all his time in bed with Ambrosia and I had spent the night worried about somebody stealing the book I had stolen.

  “What now, Paris?” Fearless asked.

  “I guess we should go up there.”

  “Okay.”

  “You got a gun, Fearless?”

  “Yeah. In the glove compartment.”

  “Maybe you better pull it out, then.”

  “You scared’a Bartholomew Perry?”

  “Somebody’s been killin’ people, man,” I said. “The Wexlers got killed and Timmerman almost wasted us. It would just make me more comfortable to know that we had some firepower on our side.”

  “Why don’t you take it then?”

  That was Fearless’s way of teasing. He knew that I was useless with guns. I couldn’t shoot straight and just holding a gun made me nervous. I had been disarmed more than once by men I had drawn down on.

  Fearless laughed and pocketed the pistol.

  We crossed the street and went through a side entrance, climbed three flights of stairs, and came to a door with the number eight stenciled on it.

  “Friendly?” Fearless asked.

  “Neutral, I think,” was my response.

  I knocked on the door. We could hear a heavy man’s footsteps. He approached the door and then remained silent for a full five seconds.

  “Who is it?” Bartholomew called out.

  “Plumber,” I said in a loud voice I rarely use.

  “I ain’t called no plumber,” came the reply.

  “There’s a leak in the walls,” I said reasonably. “Landlord wants me to check every floor until we find it.”

  “I don’t see no water.”

  “It’s in the walls,” I said again. “If it goes on, he’s gonna have to spend a whole lotta money tearing out the side of the building.”

  The lock clicked and the door came open four inches, held fast by the security chain. That was my cue to stand back.

  “Let me see you,” Bartholomew said.

  Fearless rammed his shoulder against the door. BB shrieked and the chain broke. The door flew inward, throwing the bulbous occupant to the floor. Fearless rushed in and grabbed Bartholomew by the neck as I hurried the door shut.

  “Don’t say a word,” Fearless warned BB, and then he let go of the young man’s throat.

  “What you want with me, Fearless Jones? I ain’t done nuthin’ to you.”

  “Where’s Kit Mitchell?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t wanna lie to us, son,” I said. “This is serious business and a man could die takin’ the wrong stand.”

  “I don’t know where he is. I ain’t seen him in almost a week.”

  “What about that girlfriend’a yours?” I asked.

  “What girlfriend?”

  “That white girl, that Minna Wexler.”

  It was the only way it all made sense to me. BB had a few dollars and he liked white girls. A white girl and her brother had been killed and now BB was on the run.

  “I don’t know anybody by that name,” BB said. Then he let out a loud belch.

  “It’d be easy enough for us to find out if anybody saw you with her,” I said.

  He belched again, frowning as if this one hurt him on the inside. He let himself down into a wooden chair that sat at a small maple table.

  It was a room of single items. He had a couch that was folded out into a bed, the chair he sat in, and the table it sat at. There was also a chest of drawers upon which perched a butt-ugly pink ceramic lamp made into the shape of a melting rooster.

  “Why you men messin’ wit’ me?” BB asked us. “I ain’t done nuthin’ to you.”

  “Yes you have,” I said. “You just don’t know it. Because of you the cops ran down Fearless. Because of you a man shot at us for no reason. Because of you I can’t go to my own home because men are lookin’ for me to do me harm.”

  “I didn’t do none’a that.”

  “Where’s Kit?” I asked again. “And why does your auntie want me and Fearless to bring you to her house?”

  Bartholomew’s eyes widened and his left arm began to quiver. “Aunt Winnie?” he said in a trembling voice. Then he stood straight up and took a swing at Fearless!

  I was amazed. BB knew that throwing down on Fearless Jones was tantamount to suicide. Why would he do such a thing?

  Fearless moved his head, easily avoiding the blow. But BB swung again, catching him in the ribs.

  “Slow down, Barty,” Fearless said. “You know I don’t wanna hurt you.”

  Instead of listening the crazed fat man threw a wild uppercut. Fearless sidestepped the haymaker and caught his attacker with a straight right hand. Bartholomew Perry was unconscious before he hit the floor.

  25

  FEARLESS LIFTED BB onto the sofa bed and I searched the room. He was on the run but managed to bring five shirts, six pairs of socks, three pairs of trousers, two suits, and twelve changes of underwear. He even had an extra pair of shoes. He was like a young prince in flight. All that was missing was his retinue of guardian Beefeaters.

  He had no weapons, one hundred and nineteen dollars in a wallet on the bureau, and a tiny phone book—mostly containing the phone numbers of women. No books or papers in Bartholomew’s room. No TV or radio. He didn’t even have a newspaper. There certainly wasn’t any information about Kit Mitchell.

  Going through his pockets was my last hope. In the secretary wallet of his dark green suit I found a wrinkled slip of paper that had an address on Olympic Boulevard. The single word Tonight was written below the address.

  “Let’s wake him up,” I said.

  Fearless went into the bathroom and came back with a glass of water, which he poured on the young prince’s face.

  BB didn’t sputter or jump up like they do in the movies. He put his hand to his head and moaned. When he opened his eyes I could see the string of thoughts run across his buff-colored face. At first he didn’t recognize us, then he remembered who we were from running into us around town, then he remembered our breaking in, and finally the fear of his auntie came into his eyes.

  “Throw down again and we gonna tie you up like a Christmas goose and leave you on your auntie’s doorstep,” I said.

  “No, man. Don’t call Aunt Winnie. Don’t. I’ll pay you.”

  “Where’s Kit?” I asked.

  “I ain’t seen him,” BB said. “I got money, man. Money enough for all three of us.”

  “How much?”

  “A thousand dollars.”

  Fearless grunted. “That’s a whole lotta change,” he said.

  “If you guys could find Kit we could make it fifty.”

  “Thousand?”

  “Yeah, brother. Fifty thousand dollars American.” BB was shivering, burping, and trying to smile. It was a sickening display.

  “How?” I asked.

  “She didn’t tell you?” A wily look came into the playboy’s eyes.

  “Tell me what?”

  “Why she lookin’ for me and Kit?”

  “You can tell me that.”

  “If I did, then you could cut me out right here.” />
  “I could cut you out anytime I wanted to, son,” Fearless said in an impartial tone.

  “I’ll give you guys a thousand dollars,” BB said. “A thousand, and five each if you get me to Kit and Kit give me what I want.”

  “Let’s see the cash,” I said.

  “I got your word you’ll help me find Kit?” BB asked. Then he looked at Fearless. “And that you’ll take my deal and leave the rest of the money to me?”

  I looked to Fearless for direction, knowing that any deal I made without him was subject to revision anyway.

  “Why not?” he said, answering my wordless question. “Maybe you could hold on to the cash for me and I wouldn’t have to sleep on the street no more.”

  “You said it now, Mr. Jones,” I said. “I’ma keep you to it.”

  “Okay, Paris.”

  “Then it’s a deal?” BB asked me.

  “You got to come up with a thousand dollars first,” I said. “Do that and we’ll work wit’ you. That is unless you killed one’a the Wexlers.”

  “I ain’t killed nobody, man.”

  “But you did know her, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And she and her brother got somethin’ to do with all this mess?”

  “They, they did, yeah. But I cain’t tell you about how until you find Kit.”

  “We gave you our word, BB,” I said.

  “I know,” he said. “But I just wanna keep my secret until we got Kit here with us.”

  “Who killed Minna and Lance Wexler?”

  “I don’t know, brother. That’s why I’m hidin’ here. Somebody’s out to kill us.”

  “Kill who?”

  “Me and Kit and anybody else messed up in this.”

  The chill returned to my gut then. I was messed up in BB’s business. I didn’t even know what was going on and I was still on a hit list somewhere.

  “Where’s the thousand?” Fearless asked BB.