I WENT FROM TITO’S to the 77th Precinct.
Sergeant Andre Brown was in his small office. He was the highest-ranking black policeman in the station. And we had developed a sort of friendship.
Earlier that year there had been a gang killing of a student from Truth, and rumblings about bad blood between the gangs. I was able to point Brown in the direction of some bad eggs, making it possible for him to break up the trouble before it flared into a war.
Brown was in his thirties, tall and thin, with a thick mustache and a surprising deep laugh. He was a very clean man. Perfect nails and skin. His office had every book in place and every file in order. His graduation ring was from UCLA.
“Mr. Rawlins,” he greeted me.
“Sergeant,” I said. “How are you?”
“Fine. Just fine. I hear you had some problems at the school.”
“Yeah.” I sat down and stretched out my legs across his small office. “Yeah. That’s kinda why I’m here.”
Brown stood up and closed his door. This was something he’d never done before.
“Before you say anything,” he said, “I have something to discuss with you.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“The captain took me aside a few weeks ago and we had a talk about you.”
“Yeah?”
“He told me to watch out for you. He said that you’ve been involved in some criminal activity and that you have been known to keep company with a hard-core criminal element.” He looked at me, indicating that it was my turn to speak.
“I don’t know what he said, but I’m no criminal, and I haven’t been involved in any crimes,” I said. That wasn’t completely true, but it was close enough for Brown and I knew it. “It’s true that I’ve known some pretty bad men, women too. If you go out your door down here you’re likely to meet some bad folks, cain’t help that. But what your captain might have meant is that I used to be in the business of doing favors.”
“What kind of favors?”
“People, black people, got all kinds of difficulties, you know that. A kid gets mixed up with the wrong crowd, a car goes missing. Calling the police, many times, just makes something bad that much worse. In that kinda situation I would come in and give a little push. Nothing criminal. Nothing bad.”
“Like an unlicensed private detective.”
“Exactly like that. But you know I’ve been outta that business since coming to work at Truth.”
Brown smoothed out one side of his mustache with a long slender finger while he peered into my eyes. “Okay,” he said at last. “All right. What can I do for you?”
That was my first experience with the second half of the twentieth century; the first time a man, black or white, holding a professional office, had given me the benefit of the doubt. He wasn’t running a scam. He wasn’t trying to get back at the police department. He simply saw my value and believed in my character.
“Have the kids in the gangs been messin’ ’round wit’ numbers or some other kinda gamblin’?” I asked.
“Not that I know of. I’m pretty sure not. Last group of kids I busted didn’t have five dollars between them. Why?”
“I might know who set that smoke bomb at Truth.”
“Who?”
“I won’t be sure till tomorrow morning,” I said. “The minute I know I’ll turn it over to you.”
Andre leaned forward in his chair. He was considering pushing me but decided against it. “Okay,” he said.
We shook hands as equals, and I went off feeling like a new man. I was walking tall and flush with pride. But in spite of all that I wasn’t even certain of my own name.
I WENT HOME to make sure that Feather and Jesus were okay, and then I made it back down to Florence. Bernard’s Automotive Repair was managed by my oldest L.A. friend, Primo. He lived in the first house I ever owned. I still owned the house, and Primo never paid me a dime, so it was easy to get his keys to the garage for the night.
I unlocked the side door and turned on the radio in the mechanics’ office. I switched on the office light and left the rest of the garage in darkness. Then I set myself up in a corner to the left of the door. Between my knees I had a baseball bat. On my lap was the .38. That was eight-fifteen.
IN THE DARK I HAD TIME to ponder my situation. There I was, waiting for more trouble than most citizens ever know. I had taken on Mouse’s name and I was acting like him. It felt good, way too good. I expected Emile Lund to come in that door and see the light and hear the music. He’d be with one or two henchmen, but I had the element of surprise. I was a fool, I knew I was a fool, and still I didn’t care.
Raymond Alexander had been the largest part of my history. My parents were both gone before I was nine. My relatives treated me like a beast of burden, so I ran from them. I fought a war for men who called me nigger. The police stopped me on the street for the crime of walking. Raymond was the only one who respected me and cared for me and was willing to throw his lot in with mine, no matter the odds.
I was sitting in that drafty corner because I didn’t want Mouse to be dead. Somehow by using his name I felt that I was making a tribute, even a eulogy, to his meaning in my life.
THE IRIDESCENT GREEN HANDS on my watch said 11:03 when the door cracked open. Lund walked in alone. That worried me. If he’d come with a friend, it would have meant that he was cautious. A cautious man is more likely to be reasonable when facing a baseball bat and a pistol.
