Blonde Faith

It was easy after that to walk out barefoot and half dressed. The night air was invigorating, and I had faced my worst demon and lost with dignity.

51

I followed Pico down to the ocean, made a series of turns, and wound up traveling north on the Pacific Coast Highway. I was cruising in my car with the windows all open and a cigarette between my fingers. I didn’t know what time it was exactly, but midnight was behind me and morning was far, far away. I’d cracked the pint of cognac and placed it between my legs. Now and then I’d take a hit, toasting dead men and women whom I’d known and lost over the decades.

There wasn’t much traffic, so I was feeling free. At first I was going the prescribed limit, 50 MPH, but the speedometer kept advancing as I began more and more to leave the pain behind.

I had thirty-seven dollars and a hundred-dollar bill in my pocket, no shoes or proper shirt, and the radio played songs that sounded happy even when they were about a broken heart.

I didn’t know where I was going. I needed shoes and a jacket of some sort. I’d need more cigarettes and another bottle before long. But right then, three-quarters down the pint and with eight cigarettes left, I was in a state of grace, making my way up the coast, rolling toward tomorrow.

It tickled me that the only reason I knew the ocean was out there to my left was because of the darkness, the primordial dark that had caused my kind to stop and reflect for millions of years. I laughed at the huge void.

Twenty miles or so past Malibu, a station wagon was taking its time on a steep rise. I swung around that automobile with pinpoint control. This made me laugh, made me feel strong.

Bunting and Sansoam were dead, but I didn’t feel bad about their passing. I didn’t feel guilt. The cops were in the wrong, but I wasn’t. Those men had run a murdering streak from Vietnam to California and they wouldn’t have stopped with Faith Laneer. They’d have come after me soon enough, not knowing what I might have against them.

I had a lot of living to make up for after a year of moping around because of Bonnie.

The scatter of stars over the lightless ocean called to me on the high rise up the side of the coastal mountain.

Bonnie had to turn me away. She had to marry Joguye. Africa and the Caribbean were closer to each other than America could ever be to either. He was a king and I was a bum. And tonight I would drive so far away that no one could find me to tell me if anything had changed.

My children were safe and living in a mansion. I wasn’t there to watch over them, but they had Jesus. Jesus — the boy who had always been the better man.

I lit a cigarette, took a hit off my cognac bottle, and made up my mind to call my little tribe at daybreak. They deserved to know where I was.

I wouldn’t give them a number to call me because if they knew the number, every time the phone rang I’d wonder if they’d given it to Bonnie.

A big sixteen-wheeler was having trouble with the rise. I moved out a little to make sure there was no one coming and then hit the gas. I had just about cleared the cab when I saw the headlights of an oncoming car.

That was no problem. There was a shoulder to the left. I widened the arc of my turn and tapped the brake to slow down. I had no idea that the shoulder would thin out and then fade away. I jammed down on the brakes, but by that time the wheels were no longer on solid ground. The engine stalled out, and the wind through the windows was a woman howling for help that would never come.

“No,” I said, remembering all the times I had almost died at the hands of others: German soldiers, American soldiers, drunkards, crooks, and women who wanted me in the grave.

The back of my car hit something hard, a boulder, no doubt. Something clenched down on my left foot, and pain lanced up my leg. I ignored this, though, realizing that in a few seconds I’d be dead.

Quickly I tried to come up with the image I needed to see before I died. My mind reached toward the top of the cliff. I was grasping for Bonnie, Faith, and my mother. But none of them was around for my last seconds.

The front of the car hit something, making a loud bang and a wrenching metal sound. Chevette Johnson rushed into my mind then. She was sleeping on my new couch, safe from an evil world.

I think I smiled, and then the world went black.

About the Author

Walter Mosley is the author of the acclaimed Easy Rawlins series of mysteries, including national bestsellers Cinnamon Kiss, Little Scarlet, and Bad Boy Brawly Brown; the Fearless Jones series, including Fearless Jones and Fear Itself; the novels Blue Light and RL’s Dream; and two collections of stories featuring Socrates Fortlow, Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned, for which he received the Anisfield-Wolf Book Award, and Walkin’ the Dog. He was born in Los Angeles and lives in New York.

a cognizant original v5 release november 04 2010