Fear Itself Part 12

"Well," the worker said, "that's part of it. I mean, it's not much pay but it's enough for about a half of my expenses. But I live on less, because after the checkers throw out the"-that word again-"I go and pick 'em up and take 'em back to my place."

"But what use are they?"

"None," he said, "right now. But later on, when they run outta stuff to put on the production line, they gonna have to come to me to buy all them that I took home. That's when I'm gonna be rich."

I started laughing then. I laughed so hard that I fell down on one knee. Workers started turning around to look at me. And even though I was laughing, at the same time I was in mortal fear that I'd lose my job.

A bell rang. It was a long, monotonous ring that seemed to be an omen of great danger.

"What's that?" I asked the nameless worker.

"s.h.i.+ft change," he said. "s.h.i.+ft, s.h.i.+ft, s.h.i.+ft."

16.

I ANSWERED THE PHONE as if I had never been asleep. as if I had never been asleep.

"Yes?"

"That you, Paris?" Fearless asked.

"What time is it?"

"Mornin' sometime, but I don't know when exactly."

I was fully dressed. The empty bottle of brandy was on the stool I used for a night table. I could see the last of the morning stars through the one window set in the middle of my slanted roof.

"You still in jail?" I asked.

"Yeah, man."

"They still questioning you?"

"No. They gave up a few hours ago, but they still holdin' me on a parking ticket fine I never paid. I ain't got it."

I took a deep breath. The fear and laughter of the dream still crowded my chest.

"Let me find my shoes and I'll be right down there," I said. "You at the Seventy-seventh?"

"Yes sir, Mr. Minton. I sure am."

I put the phone back in the cradle and sat up. That's when the brandy made its return. My head started spinning and I had to lie back on the bed. The dizziness subsided, but then the roof began a slow turn to the right. When I closed my eyes I could feel the bed s.h.i.+fting under me.

s.h.i.+ft. The word echoed in my mind. I remembered the production line and the would-be entrepreneur's chant.

The phone rang again. How long had it been since Fearless called?

"h.e.l.lo," I said, the bed moving under me like a river under a lily pad.

"Paris," a bail bondsman I knew said.

"Good mornin', Mr. Sweet. I was just thinkin' about you. It wasn't a kind thought. No sir. It was more like why do you wanna be messin' with me an' Fearless and here we supposed to be friends?" The words flowed out of my mouth just like me going down that river.

"I'm sorry, Paris."

I opened my eyes. Now it was my thoughts' turn to take a spin. Milo never apologized unless he wanted something. Never. If he b.u.mped into you and you stumbled and fell, he'd more likely say, You shoulda got out my way, You shoulda got out my way, than to proffer an apology. That's because Milo had been a lawyer, and all lawyers know that an apology is tantamount to an admission of guilt. And admitting guilt was the only cardinal sin in the lawyer's bible. than to proffer an apology. That's because Milo had been a lawyer, and all lawyers know that an apology is tantamount to an admission of guilt. And admitting guilt was the only cardinal sin in the lawyer's bible.

I made it once more to a sitting position. If I sat sideways, with my head down below my shoulders, the room stopped revolving and merely shook.

"What is it, Milo?"

"What is what?" he asked.

"Don't fool with me, man. It's too early and I'm way too hung over to be played with."

"I made a mistake, Paris," Milo said. "I should have shared what I knew about Miss Fine with you."

"You scarin' me, Milo man."

"I'm tryin' to apologize."

"Spit it out, brother," I said. "I got to go get Fearless out of jail."

"What's he in jail for?"

"What all people are in jail for-not havin' the money it takes to keep from gettin' there in the first place."

"Will you come to the office after you get him?"

"What for?"

"I got a phone call last night that disturbed me," he said.

"From who?"

"Just come on over, Paris. I'll pay you."

"All right," I said.

It wasn't the money he offered but the fact that he offered it that made me acquiesce to his request. If Milo offered to put up cash, the situation had to be dire indeed.

I hung up the phone and propelled myself into a standing position. I found that the trick here was also in the shoulders; if I kept s.h.i.+fting them I could stay upright.

I wanted to go back to bed, to take off my clothes, and put my head under the covers. But I knew that was a fool's move. Things were happening without my knowledge or control, and people knew where I lived. Two people named Wexler were dead, and lawyers were calling me before banking hours to admit their guilt.

I went to the stairs even though I believed there was a good chance I'd stumble on tangled feet and break my neck for the effort.

IT WASN'T YET SIX O'CLOCK. Fearless was oblivious of the time. They'd probably questioned him all night. They might have beaten him. He called so early because time for him was just one long day. Milo called because he was scared. He'd probably been up all night fretting over the grief that only greed can bring on a man. Fearless was oblivious of the time. They'd probably questioned him all night. They might have beaten him. He called so early because time for him was just one long day. Milo called because he was scared. He'd probably been up all night fretting over the grief that only greed can bring on a man.

Thinking about Milo brought up a question. How was it that he had involved himself in a problem that Fearless stumbled into on his own? What did Milo have to do with Kit Mitch.e.l.l? I took a sip of reheated coffee, hoping that the answer was in my sober mind.

There came a knock on the door.

The chill reentered my intestines. The last four times someone had come to my front door my problems had gotten worse. A dog would have stayed away from that trouble after the first time. A stupid dog would have waited for the second bane to start avoiding distress.

I was fully dressed and shod, so I stepped quietly through the screen door at the back of my house. I tiptoed down the wood stairs, hopped the fence into the alley, and ran like a six-year-old.

I didn't slow down for three blocks.

Maybe it was childish to run away from my own home but, I reasoned, who but Trouble could be knocking at my door that early in the morning? Like I said before, I'm a small man. I've been chased, caught, and beaten by big-boned women.

"Runnin' ain't a bad thing, baby," my mother used to tell me. "When you're dead you'll wish you had the legs for it."

THE SUN WASN'T UP and there was still a chill in the desert air. There's a system of alleyways in L.A. that make the streets in some southern towns look like country paths. The alley behind my building was wide and well paved, and it went on for twelve city blocks. There were no rats or cats, not even much trash strewn about. Just one long strip of asphalt with a ribbon of concrete down the middle, a permanent divider line. and there was still a chill in the desert air. There's a system of alleyways in L.A. that make the streets in some southern towns look like country paths. The alley behind my building was wide and well paved, and it went on for twelve city blocks. There were no rats or cats, not even much trash strewn about. Just one long strip of asphalt with a ribbon of concrete down the middle, a permanent divider line.

After my initial sprint I slowed to a walk. A few streets down from there and I even began to feel safe. Whoever it was at my house had probably gone away. And even if they broke in, there was nothing to steal but books. (One of the books on my bedroom shelf had been hollowed out. That's where I put Miss Fine's five-dollar bills.) For a moment I worried about the fate of my last bookstore. The store owner next door burned me down to get the lot. That had been the worst experience of my life. After a little time fretting I stopped worrying about it. Lightning couldn't strike twice, not even on my unlucky head.

17.

"WHAT YOU SAY THAT NAME WAS AGAIN?" the desk sergeant at the Seventy-seventh Street Precinct asked. the desk sergeant at the Seventy-seventh Street Precinct asked.

I had walked there. It wasn't very far, and being a pedestrian made me feel secure. My enemies, if they were out looking for me, would drive past a man on foot without a second glance.

"Tristan Jones," I said to the sergeant.

"Um, let me see here," the portly, bespectacled white man said as he thumbed through an oversized logbook on his side of the counter. "Oh I see. He owes a big fine, a very big fine."

The sergeant closed the book and reached for the phone. He picked up the receiver, dialed a number, and waited for someone to answer.

"h.e.l.lo, Jerry?" the sergeant said. "Yeah, it's Rick. What you think about that Barbette, huh? d.a.m.n, I didn't think she'd really do it but Frank said that she's wild. . . . Uh-huh. . . . Yeah."

I scratched my ear and waited patiently. Being a cop wasn't a business. He didn't have to make sure the customer was happy. If he wanted to say h.e.l.lo to the jailer before getting my friend, that was his prerogative.

The story he told was long and one-sided because I couldn't hear the parts that the man on the other end of the line added. The gist of it was that this woman, Barbette, had made a wager that she would accompany a group of them to one of their friends' apartment buck naked. She came in and visited with them just as if she were fully clothed. She hadn't gotten embarra.s.sed until a guy came over with his girlfriend.

"Can you imagine that?" Sergeant Rick said. "She didn't mind us seein' her t.i.tties and bush but another woman made her shy."

I must have s.h.i.+fted or something, because Rick noticed me again.

"Hold on, Jerry," he said into the phone, and then, "Can I help you?" he asked as if we had never met.

"Tristan Jones," I said.

"I told you he's bein' held over for a big fine he owes."

"How much is it?"

"Why?"

"Because I'd like to pay it and get my friend out of jail."

"I have to call you back, Jerry," Sergeant Rick said. Then he hung up.

Sighing heavily, he reopened the logbook. After turning pages back and forth half a dozen times, he said, "Yeah, yeah. That's what I thought. It's ninety-eight dollars and forty-seven cents."

He slammed the book shut and actually reached for the phone again.

"Do you have change?" I asked, reaching for my wallet.

Sergeant Rick took off his gla.s.ses then. His eyes had looked small behind the lenses, but they shrank to almost nothing without the magnifying effect.

"Change for what?"

"Hundred-dollar bill."

I kept the folded bill behind a sepia-tone photograph of my mother. I carried it around with me because I promised myself when I was a child that once I had enough money I'd always have a hundred bill just like a gambler my uncle once knew named Diamond Blackie.

Sergeant Rick held the tender up to the light, rubbed it between his fingers, turned it over and over. He did everything but lick Mr. Franklin's face.

"Where'd you get this?" he asked.

"From the bank."

"It's only seven-fifteen, son."

Fearless would have bridled under that insult. He might have even resorted to violence. But I'm a different sort of man. I found his reaction funny. The only problem I had was keeping the smile off my face.

"I'm a businessman, officer. I find that it is at times imperative that I have a certain amount of cash on hand to meet incidental costs. My a.s.sociate, Tristan Jones, is aware of this fact, and he called upon me to do him this service. So I appear here before you to meet his debt and obtain his freedom."

Sergeant Rick looked at me as if I had just walked off the moon. He must have realized that if he had heard my voice and words over the phone he would have thought I was an educated white man. He was stunned, but he had a good comeback.

"I thought you said you got this bill from the bank."

"Originally," I said. "I took this bill from my branch three weeks ago, the last time I found it necessary to use my incidental fund."

"And what was that?" he asked. "Another jailbird?"