“Uncle Willy up in the bed. He’s sick.”
My real estate agent, Mofass, had emphysema and surprised the doctors with every breath he drew.
“I got to talk to him, honey.”
“Sorry, Mr. Rawlins, but I can’t get him outta the bed at this time of night.”
Jewelle was a distant cousin of Mofass’s ex-girlfriend, Clovis MacDonald. She was only sixteen two years before when she helped Mofass contact me to get away from her auntie. Clovis was trying to bleed away everything that Mofass had, but we put a stop to that.
After that Jewelle worked for Mofass and lived with EttaMae. But as soon as she turned eighteen she moved in with Mofass.
Jewelle had one of the toughest minds I had ever encountered in man or woman. She was a straight-A student all through Crenshaw High School but she decided against college because Uncle Willy, her pet name for Mofass, needed her. Clovis and her brothers had it in for them, so Jewelle moved them to an isolated little home in Laurel Canyon. She got a place there through a man who owned property down in Watts that Mofass represented. Then she hired Buford D. Howell, a UAW man from Detroit, to collect the rent and maintain the properties.
On the night of her eighteenth birthday she moved in with Mofass. She said that he was sick, she still called him Uncle Willy, but we all knew that there was more to that relationship than good friends.
If you wanted to get a letter to Mofass you had to send it to his PO box. If you wanted to call him you had to use his answering service—unless you were one of the three people who had his private number. He and Jewelle stayed in their posh little house perched up over Sunset Boulevard living like two young lovers; him hacking from emphysema and her holding camphor and menthol under his nose.
“I got to talk to him, Jewelle,” I said.
“What about?”
“Did the cops call your service?”
“Yeah, but you cain’t talk to Uncle Willy ’bout that. He didn’t even get the message.”
“Okay,” I said. “All right. But listen, I told the cops I was out lookin’ at the apartments night before last. I said I was with Mofass. Could you get him to back me up on that?”
“Sure can. I’ll tell’im first thing when he get up.” She thought for a moment and then said, “At breakfast, I mean.”
“Do you wanna know why I’m askin’?” I wondered if she understood what she was getting into.
“It don’t matter, Mr. Rawlins. Uncle Willy owe you his life and I owe you too. It don’t matter what you want. Anything we got is yours.”
“Is that true?” I asked, no longer thinking that I was talking to a child.
“You could drink it,” she answered in a phrase formed in north Texas.
Never in my long years of knowing Mofass could I trust him completely. He was small-minded and cowardly. All he ever thought about was the money roll in his pocket. But when Jewelle came along he became as constant as the tide.
“Thanks, honey,” I said, ready to get on with the rest of my troubles.
“Mr. Rawlins?”
“Yeah?”
“Um, well …”
“Come on, JJ, spit it out. I got to go now.”
“Uncle Willy an’ me was just wonderin’ if maybe you wanna come work for him. I mean, you’d be making more money from us than they pay at the schools. You know all about how buildin’s work and stuff. Mr. Howell have people he trust to do work but you know they won’t even talk to a girl. I figure, I mean me an’ Uncle Willy, that you could show me how stuff works and then I could make better decisions on the spot.”
She was right. Men didn’t like women who wanted to be independent. I could have taught her everything she needed to know about real estate maintenance and value. But that’s not why she wanted me to work for them. She loved Mofass but she was lonely too. She needed somebody who read books to talk to sometimes. Buford Howell read the racing forms on Saturdays and the hymnal on Sundays—that was it.
Jewelle needed someone to talk to her about the paper and the big world out beyond a paycheck or a dirty joke.
“I can’t just up and quit my job, honey. It’s not so much the salary but the benefits and the future.”
Her silence told me how sad I’d made her.
“But maybe I could work with you on the weekends. Maybe every other one, you know, like a consultant.”
“That would be great,” she said. And I was happy because she sounded young again.
I CLEANED UP and put on my good brown woolen suit. My shirt was buff silk and the cuff links were yellow gold and onyx. My shoes were a soft, light brown leather, and the socks matched my shirt in fabric and in color.
I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled. Then I thought about the Gasteau brothers; they were dressed fine too. It hadn’t helped them.
I left a note on the kitchen table for Jesus. If Feather woke up he would take care of her.
I walked out of the house exhilarated that I could still get out, and scared that it felt so good.
