Fear Itself Part 3

"Why you think we want anything other than coffee?" I asked him.

"No Negroes drop in here for coffee, brother. An' even if they did, it's cause they work for the trains. Any civilian knows about my door would come at night or on his way to someplace else."

"We could be on the road somewhere," I speculated.

Hampton looked at my clothes, which were only made for working, and shook his head.

"Dressed like that," he said. "And with not even a valise between you. I don't think so."

"Yeah," I admitted. "You right. The reason we've come is that Fearless here owes me twenty dollars."

"So?"

"He don't have it, but he told me that his friend Kit owed him for a week's work he did out in Oxnard. Kit was supposed to pay him Wednesday last but he never showed up."

Hampton's only imperfect features were his eyes. They weren't set deep into his head like most people's. They were right out there competing with his nose for facial real estate. As a result even I could easily read the hesitation when it entered his gaze.

"What's all that got to do with me?"

"Light-colored man name of Pete," I said. "You know, he has a hot dog cart downtown. He said that he'd seen Kit in here more than once."

"Kit who?"

"Mitch.e.l.l," Fearless said. "Kit Mitch.e.l.l. Sometimes they call him Mitch. One'a his front teeth is capped in silver."

It was always good to ask questions when in the company of Fearless Jones. Women liked answering him because of his raw power and sleek appearance. Men stopped at the power. They didn't know that a man as dangerous as Fearless would never bully his way through life. All they knew was that if they had that kind of strength and skill they'd never take no for an answer again.

"I don't know really anything," Hampton James said. "I mean, Kit ain't been in here since he started that watermelon business. But I heard from one of the bar girls that he took her up to a room he had at the Bernard Arms over on Fountain."

"Sounds like a white place," I said.

"Yeah," the bar owner said. "That's why she was talkin' about it. She said that he went in an' asked for Hercules and they showed him up to a penthouse apartment that was all nice with a stocked bar and everything."

"Hercules?"

"That's what she said."

The bartender glanced at the porter and moved in that direction. He seemed worried. Looking at him, that all but perfect sampling of humanity sidling away fearfully, gave me my third chill of the day. It was as if he were scuttling away from some danger that was coming up from behind me. The feeling was so strong that I turned around.

There sat Fearless Jones, staring up innocently at the skylight.

6.

MY EYES WERE WATERING and I couldn't stop yawning by the time Fearless and I got to Ambrosia Childress's house. We went to the front door together because I needed her phone number to stay in touch with my friend. and I couldn't stop yawning by the time Fearless and I got to Ambrosia Childress's house. We went to the front door together because I needed her phone number to stay in touch with my friend.

She answered in a bathrobe that was open just enough to snap me out of my lethargy. She had deep chocolate skin, dark red lips, and bright brown eyes. When she looked at Fearless her lips parted.

"Hi," she said.

I might just as well have been a tree.

"Hey, Ambrosia. I'm sorry to drop in on you like this but I need a place to stay for a day or two."

"Okay," she said. No question why. No coy hesitation. I do believe that her nostrils widened and her chest swelled.

"Thank you, honey," Fearless said.

He was swallowed up whole by her doorway and I was left at the threshold with a sc.r.a.p of paper in my hand.

We'd decided that it would be dangerous for Fearless to travel the streets with so many people looking for him. I could make the rounds asking questions while he suffered the four walls of Ambrosia's protective custody.

"GOOD AFTERNOON. BERNARD ARMS," a friendly young woman said in my ear. a friendly young woman said in my ear.

I was down the street from the residence hotel, closeted in a sidewalk phone booth.

"Brian Letterman," I said in a tone completely drained of my Louisiana upbringing. "Pasternak Deliveries. With whom am I speaking?"

"Susan Seaborne. Yes, Mr. Letterman. What can I do for you?"

"I got a new guy at the front desk here, Sue. You know how it goes. Some guy in a hundred-dollar suit came in and dropped off a parcel without leaving the proper information. Lenny didn't know. And now I have a problem."

"Oh," Susan Seaborne said. "I see."

"I'm glad you do, because my boss wants to fire me. Can you believe that? Lenny takes down two lines for an address and Pasternak wants to put it on me."

"I really don't see what we have to do with your trouble at work," the young woman said.

"Oh, yeah. I'm sorry. It's just that my wife's pregnant, and if I lose this job -"

"Are you looking for a new job?" the operator asked, trying to urge me toward clarity.

"I got two lines here," I said. "Actually three words. Hercules and Bernard Arms. That's all the address that the suit gave Lenny. If I don't get a proper address my new baby will be suckling cheap wine on Skid Row."

"Lance Wexler," the woman said brightly. "You're looking for Lance Wexler. He's got a penthouse suite."

"Is there a number on that suite, dear?" I asked in the wake of a deep sigh.

"P-four. That's his apartment."

"P-four," I said, pretending to write it down. "Can you connect me to his room, please? I need to see when he wants to take delivery."

"We can take the package at the front desk."

"I know," I said. "But Mr. Pasternak wants me to go there myself and get the man's signature. Either I put the package in his hand by four o'clock today or I can kiss sweet b.u.t.ter good-bye."

"But Mr. Wexler isn't here," my new friend Sue said.

"Are you sure? Or is it that he just doesn't want to be bothered?"

"No. He's out. I'm sure of it. No. He's definitely not here. He hasn't been in for a few days."

THE BERNARD ARMS RESIDENCE HOTEL was nowhere near any colored neighborhood. They wouldn't have rented a toilet to Kit Mitch.e.l.l. was nowhere near any colored neighborhood. They wouldn't have rented a toilet to Kit Mitch.e.l.l.

Next door on the right was a florist's shop called Das.h.i.+el's. On the left was a stationery store with no name posted. I went into the stationery store and bought a big blue envelope and a small stack of gummed labels. I attached one of the labels to the envelope and wrote the name Mr. John Stover. Beneath that I penned The Bernard Arms.

With the envelope under my arm I went around to the alley behind the building.

The back door of the residence hotel had a concrete platform in front of it. On that dais stood six large metal trash cans. Next to that was a double doorway. The doors were unlocked. They opened onto a hallway that smelled of garbage with a hint of freshly hatched maggots. The walls down that pa.s.sage were painted dark brown to waist level and light blue the rest of the way up. It was as if the management had decided to make the working environment as hard and ugly as they possibly could.

At the far end of the unsightly corridor was a doorway that had a red-and-white sign that read FIRE EXIT FIRE EXIT attached to it. The stairwell beyond the door was also of utilitarian design. Filthy bare wood stairs led me past rough plaster walls that were painted a shade neither yellow nor green but a color that took on the worst aspects of both hues. attached to it. The stairwell beyond the door was also of utilitarian design. Filthy bare wood stairs led me past rough plaster walls that were painted a shade neither yellow nor green but a color that took on the worst aspects of both hues.

With the blue envelope securely nestled under my arm, I walked up the zigzag stairwell until it came to an end. I opened the door and came out on a tar paper and gravel roof. Realizing that I had overshot my goal by one floor I was about to turn back, but then I heard a sound, what a poet on my bookshelves might have called a susurration.

I looked around the side of the small structure that housed the doorway and saw the tan shoes and bare b.u.t.t of a very white man humping away between a woman's shuddering legs. She was wearing a maid's uniform and he was most likely the valet. They were going at it on a sheet spread out over the gravel and tar.

"Warren. Oh, oh, Warren," the woman moaned.

It was her calling out a name that was common but not someone I knew that struck me. The name Wexler came back to me. Hercules's name suddenly seemed familiar.

I backed toward the doorway and descended a floor to the penthouse.

The penthouse hall had emerald carpeting and muted lime walls. There were potted ferns between the entrances to the suites and crystal chandeliers hung every six feet or so. The window at the end of the hall looked out over the tops of trees. It was more like a view of Paradise than some upstart brick-and-plasterboard city.

I thought about the lovers wrestling above me-Warren and the woman who called his name. Again I thought of the name Wexler. Where had I heard that name before?

My heart was thumping by then. I had made it all that way by using stealth that would have been better suited to a much braver man. I had planned my steps carefully, all the way down to the envelope under my arm. Hercules wasn't home but Kit might be up there with some railroad prost.i.tute. And all I had to do was mention Fearless's name to keep him from doing something violent. Everyone who knew Fearless also knew not to cross him.

But the lovers on the roof had disconcerted me.

The cream yellow door sported the characters P4 cut out of mother-of-pearl. I felt my heart leap when I knocked. A moment went by. I knocked a bit harder. More time pa.s.sed. cut out of mother-of-pearl. I felt my heart leap when I knocked. A moment went by. I knocked a bit harder. More time pa.s.sed.

I sighed out loud. What the h.e.l.l was I doing there anyway? I wasn't Fearless Jones's father. What did I care if he had to leave California? I had gone further than many a friend would.

But who was Hercules Wexler? I could see his family name printed somewhere.

I grabbed the k.n.o.b, remembering my nightmare, and turned it. The door was unlocked. There was nothing left to stand in my way but common sense.

I entered Suite P4.

7.

THE LARGE ROOM WAS STIFLING, filled with sunlight pouring in from at least a half-dozen closed, unshaded windows. The walls were yellow cream and the carpet royal blue. The ash furniture was heavy and bright. Gla.s.s-door cabinets exhibited fine china and porcelain knickknacks. Copies of Renaissance paintings in ornate gold frames hung here and there. A glossy finished dining table in the middle of the room supported a large vase with at least three dozen long-stemmed, once-red roses displayed like peac.o.c.k feathers. filled with sunlight pouring in from at least a half-dozen closed, unshaded windows. The walls were yellow cream and the carpet royal blue. The ash furniture was heavy and bright. Gla.s.s-door cabinets exhibited fine china and porcelain knickknacks. Copies of Renaissance paintings in ornate gold frames hung here and there. A glossy finished dining table in the middle of the room supported a large vase with at least three dozen long-stemmed, once-red roses displayed like peac.o.c.k feathers.

The only problem was that the roses had blackened and died and the hot room smelled sour.

I didn't know what I was looking for exactly. Maybe some envelope or receipt that would give me and Fearless a line on Kit Mitch.e.l.l. Just something so that when the police came down on Fearless he could give them a lead.

I could have been arrested for burglary, but I only planned to spend five minutes searching.

The first thing I did was to locate the fire escape. Then I leaned the back of a chair under the front doork.n.o.b. If somebody tried to get in I could be down in the street and off before they saw my face.

The dining room had a wide doorway, with no doors attached, which connected it to a living room that was two steps down. This room was also yellow and blue with windows and light. The paintings here had the same garish frames, but these copies were from the Postimpressionist period. Cezanne and Lautrec, Manet and Monet, but no Van Gogh or Gauguin. I knew about paintings. I once got a whole boxful of art books discarded by the Santa Monica library. They were mostly in black and white and had been thrown out in favor of the color plates found in newer texts.

There were no books or bookshelves anywhere in Mr. Wexler's home.

There was a swinging door that was partly open. The temperature in that apartment must have been at least ninety-five degrees, but the wedge holding the door ajar made me cold enough to crave a sweater.

The foot that kept the door from closing was bare, connected to a large white man with a butcher's knife buried in his chest. All he wore was a pair of brand-new blue jeans. His arms and legs went in all directions. His eyes were open and he was beginning to stink. His wrists were bruised and b.l.o.o.d.y, as if he had been struggling with tight bonds. There was a balled-up knot of white cloth wedged in his mouth. The open mouth, puffed-out cheeks, and bulging eyes made him look somewhat like a gasping fish.

My first instinct was to run. I even turned and took three steps. But then I stopped myself. The man was obviously dead. From the smell he had been there awhile. A killer wouldn't stay around the body, I thought. And I'd seen worse. Less than a year before, I'd searched a room full of slaughtered men, looking for the fingertip that Fearless had gotten shot off.

The man was partly on his side, so I didn't have to move him much to get the wallet out of his back pocket. There was a driver's license for a Lawrence Wexler.

"Hercules," I said to no one.

He was big enough for a Hercules. Well over six feet and bulky with both muscle and fat. And he was bloated from many hours of being dead in that heat. There were bruises and burns all down his right arm. I suppose he gave up whatever information it was that he had before the left arm had to be mutilated.

The wallet was real alligator. Even back then it had to cost fifty dollars or more. It held three twenty-dollar bills and a packet of business cards bound together by a rubber band. There were liquor stores, furniture movers, and Madame Ethel's Beauty Supply among the cards. There were also six business cards for the same man-Lawrence Wexler. It seemed that he was a salesman for Cars-O-Plenty, a used automobile business.

My stomach started churning and I ran to find a bathroom. I told myself to wait, but the call of nature was too strong. A door leading from the kitchen went into a small toilet. Seated there on the commode, I placed the wallet on the floor before me. Madame Ethel's sounded familiar to me, but at first I couldn't place it. Then I remembered that Kit had done a delivery for that company.

I considered taking the wallet with me. I didn't care about the money but maybe there was something in there that I needed.

But what if I got caught?

I'd tell the truth.

That thought made me laugh.

It seemed like I was on the commode for hours. The fear in my gut was worse than many intestinal viruses I had contracted. I felt relieved and weakened when the bout was through. I'd had enough time to check everything, so I just took one of Wexler's business cards and returned the wallet to the dead man's pocket.

I pa.s.sed through the house wiping every surface that I had touched and many that I might have touched. I put the dining room chair back in its place and moved out of Suite P4 with less fuss than a b.u.t.terfly leaving a dank cave. with less fuss than a b.u.t.terfly leaving a dank cave.

I made it down the stairs without taking a breath. I was at the swinging doors to the back alley entrance when a man yelled, "Hey you!"

I turned, seeing a tall and slender white man dressed all in white. He wasn't a cook but it certainly was a uniform he was wearing.