“Where to?” Fearless asked when we were on our way.
“To where my bookstore used to be.”
Fearless drove because I wanted to keep my mind free to think us out of our troubles. He stayed on main streets in mostly colored neighborhoods so there wasn’t much of a chance of being stopped by the police.
The sight of the burnt-out lot still tore at my chest.
“Damn, man,” Fearless said. “That’s bad. Why he wanna burn you down like that?”
“I don’t know. But it break my heart to see it.”
We went to the convenience store next door, Antonio and Sons. It was owned by an Italian family, but five times out of six you were likely to run into Theodore Wally at the cash register. Theodore had been a neighborhood kid who used to come into Antonio’s on milk-and-bread runs for his mother. Antonio liked him. He gave him a job sweeping when Theodore was twelve and increased his responsibilities over the years until he was a fixture there. I don’t believe he was over twenty-five, but he looked to be forty going on sixty.
“Mr. Minton,” Wally said. His fleshy face revealed deep concern over my misfortune. “They been lookin’ for you.”
“Who has?”
“Hey, Fearless,” Theodore greeted my friend and then answered me. “The fire department investigation man and the police.”
“What they want?”
“The fire might’a been because of gasoline, they said, and they wanna know if you owned that place and if you had the bookstore insured. The police was just askin’, they said.”
Theodore looked worried, so I asked him, “What you tell ’em?”
“I said about the man who hit you. I mean I had already told them before and I thought that they would think it was somebody tryin’ to hurt you burnt down the store. That’s all right, right?”
“That’s okay,” I said. “You right too. If they think somebody was after me, then maybe they’ll blame him for the fire. Maybe they’ll find the motherfucker and put him in jail.”
Theodore smiled uncertainly. He wasn’t a dumb man, but he was very shy, more comfortable with numbers and merchandise than he was with looking people in the eye. Antonio loved him because he was a whiz at keeping books and remembering inventory.
“You remember those Messenger of the Divine folks had the store down the street?” I asked.
“Uh-huh. Yeah. They used to buy two jugs’a High Mountain red wine every Thursday before their meetin’. That was the blood.”
Fearless grinned at that.
“Did you know Reverend Grove or Father Vincent?”
“T’say hi.”
“You know where they went when they left here?”
“Uh-uh. No. But…”
“But what?”
“Dorthea Williams used to go to the meetin’s. She used to go on Thursdays and then some other times too.”
“That’s Dorthea from the beauty parlor across the street?”
“Uh-huh. Yeah.”
“How much these barbecue potato chips, Theodore?” Fearless asked, holding up a big bag of chips.
“Twenty-nine cent, but you could just take ’em, Fearless. Just take ’em, okay?”
“Thanks, man.”
I shook Theodore’s hand, but after the usual grip he didn’t let go.
“You need money, Mr. Minton?” the clerk asked me.
“Why? You wanna reach in the register and gimme some?”
“I got some savin’s. I got a little money put away. If you needed to get on your feet…”
“Thanks, Theodore, but I need more than you got to give. But let me ask you somethin’?”
“What?”
“How come you call Fearless Fearless, but you still call me mister?”
