thought that Musa was a white man and he wanted revenge on the black woman who dared to become a white man’s lover.
“Hey you, Easy Rawlins!” someone shouted.
I didn’t respond. I didn’t know who it was calling me but I couldn’t take my mind off of Harold and Jackie and now Nola on a silver bed in a white room hidden by the same police department that refused to believe my story.
“Hey!” the voice shouted again.
Hearing the threat in his tone my body rose without my willing it to do so. I turned to see that I was faced with four men, the foremost of whom was Newell.
“You sucker punched me yesterday,” the broad-shouldered man said.
I lifted my iron in reply.
Two of the men who were with him took involuntary steps backward.
“Whu-oh,” the third one said.
“You think I’m ascared’a that crowbar?” he asked me.
I kicked him in the groin and then swung the iron at his cohorts, hitting one of them in the shoulder.
“Get the fuck outta here or I’ma kill you motherfuckahs!” I shouted at the men.
They ran and I didn’t blame them. Easy Rawlins was a crazy man right then. Insane.
Newell was in the dirt moaning when I knelt down next to him.
“Do you want me to start hittin’ you with this thing?” I asked him.
He shook his head.
“Are you scared of this crowbar now?” I asked.
He nodded so I knew he could distinguish between the words I said.
“What was the name of the bum lived in here?”
“Harold,” he said in a pained whisper.
I left him there for someone else to save. Saving wasn’t my business right then. I was ready to go out and kill a man named Harold.
25
I entered the Seventy-seventh Street police station not fifteen minutes after leaving Newell. I’d gotten out of the car with the tire iron in my hand but when a woman passing by jerked her head and skipped away from me I realized that I should put my weapon down.
Walking back to the car, I felt every step like I was walking through water. I was wasting time. What I needed to do was find Harold and kill him. I opened the trunk and threw the tire iron in and then I sprinted for the police station.
I ran up to the front door breathing hard and sweating. Anyone looking at me would have thought that I was a man in trouble. I’m sure that’s what the desk sergeant thought.
“Yes?” he asked, scrutinizing me from head to toe.
“Detective Suggs, please,” I said.
“And who are you?”
The only feature I remember about that white man was that he had red hair. Red hair like Nola Payne had. Little Scarlet murdered by Harold the tramp. If thoughts could kill, people would have fallen dead for a mile all around me.
“Easy Rawlins,” I said. “Easy Rawlins.”
“And what’s your problem, Mr. Rawlins?”
“Murder,” I said. “He asked me about a murder and I found out something he wants to know.”
I could see the cop trying to block me with some unspoken logic in his mind. The man looks crazy, he seemed to be thinking, but then again Suggs was only visiting the Seventy-seventh. I probably did know him.
There were quite a few policemen in the station. I suppose they were on overtime, making sure the people in the neighborhood didn’t burn them down.
“Have a seat,” Red said.
I went over near the bench across from his desk but stayed on my feet.
“I said sit down,” the desk sergeant commanded.
“Don’t wanna sit,” I said.
“You heard the man,” a voice to my right said.
It was from a tall uniformed cop standing nearby. He had gray hair, a young face, and a hand on his baton. I didn’t say anything to him, just stood there and stared.
“Do you want me to sit you down?” the gray-haired, boy-faced man asked.
“Fuck you.”
