and simple business.”
“Okay,” Fearless replied.
I remembered something that my uncle Lonnie used to say.
LAWSON AND WIDLOW’S OFFICE was in a six-story stone building on Wilshire. There was a big glass door and vines trained to cover the walls. The windows were large. Garish floodlights bathed the edifice so that it looked official and important on the otherwise dark street.
A big and brawny white man met us at the side door. His face was bland with smallish features. It wasn’t a face that I recognized, but still I thought that I’d seen him before.
“What, three?” he asked. “There’s only supposed to be one.”
His accent sounded European, but I was no expert. It was familiar, though I couldn’t remember where I’d heard the cadence before.
“These are my partners,” Milo said in an officious tone, as though he expected the stranger to hop out of the way. He was acting like a black man who had never experienced racism, who expected his due with no arguments or questions.
The white man didn’t like the idea of partners but finally decided that he couldn’t make us disappear.
“Come,” he said gruffly.
We followed him up three narrow and unlit flights of carpeted stairs. Everywhere was dark until we arrived on the fourth floor, where a light shone from behind a glass door at the end of the hall. Our chaperone opened the door and ushered us in with a gesture of his hand.
Fearless was the first one through the door, then Milo and me, followed by the big man. We all three had different reactions to what we found there.
Fearless swiveled his head around to get the lay of the land. Milo looked at the small suited man behind the desk and sputtered, “What’s this supposed to mean?”
I was proud that I didn’t let the fear I felt come out when I greeted our host.
“Hello, Mr. Minor,” I said. “I wondered when you’d show up again.”
The little man squinted at me. “Rome? No, Paris. You were at the Tannenbaum’s house, no?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Hey, brother,” Fearless said.
When I looked to my right to see who it was that Fearless was greeting, I felt a clenching spasm down in my bowels. Leon Douglas, his eye still puffy and his jaw swollen, stood next to another evil-looking black man. The stranger was taller by an inch and twenty pounds lighter than Leon. He wore a cowboy hat.
Both men glared at us.
“What is the meaning of this?” Milo said again. “Where’s Mr. Widlow?”
“Mr. Widlow suggested to me that the principals should work out the specifics of this transaction,” the little man said. “Sit down, gentlemen.”
Fearless grabbed the chair closest to Leon and his friend, who stood against the wall on our right. The big white man who let us in leaned against the door behind us.
Minor was seated at a vast maple desk that was empty of papers or books or anything else to distract the eye. All he had was a lamp with an opaque green glass shade. Mr. Minor/Zimmerman smiled and nodded.
“How is Sol?” he asked.
“Dead,” Fearless said.
“We have business, yes?” our host asked. Sol’s death was not even worth his notice.
“Who are you?” Milo asked.
“I am Zev Minor.” I would have never known it was a lie from his delivery. He was just a feeble uncle too old and weary to waste time trying to fool you. “And this is Mr. Christopher,” he said, gesturing to the man behind us.
Fearless had his head turned away from Minor. He was pretending to read the titles on a shelf of books. That way our back was covered.
“I think you already know Mr. Douglas. His friend’s name is Mr. Tricks.”
“Just Tricks,” the cowboy said.
“We represent Lawson and Widlow in this business about the bond.” The last three words betrayed the gravity
