“This come back on the other end,” Milo amended.
“Uh-uh,” I said. “Our blood, your money, that’s the fuel and the investment.”
When Mr. Sweet put those thirty twenty-dollar bills on the desk I knew that he believed in us. I was a young man then. His faith would only mean something to a young fool.
21
THE FIRST THING Fearless and I did was to drive over to Merrydale Circle, a single-story court of apartments on Ninety-fifth Street. Fontanelle Roberts was the superintendent of the nine units there. She rented to tenants by the week and paid the owners based on a monthly rent schedule. Monthly rent was forty dollars, but she charged eleven bucks a week.
Fontanelle was also a bookie, a fence, and a go-between when somebody needed the services of a criminal or a shady doctor or lawyer, all of whom she held in the same low esteem. She was a small woman with dark red skin, Negro features, and black eyes. She always wore a dress and hat. She carried a purse too. In that purse was a dull gray .45. I knew about the gun because she once showed it to me and said that she celebrated every January 1 by firing off the old bullets and then reloading with fresh ammunition for the new year.
“Hi, Fearless,” the older woman cried, honestly happy to see my friend. “Paris.”
“Hey, Fell,” I said. Fearless echoed my greeting.
“What happent to yo bookstore, Paris? I seen it all burned down. They was clearin’ off the lot.”
“Who was?”
“Workmen. Had a fancy truck with writin’ on it, but I didn’t stop to read.”
I wanted to know more about the lot I’d left behind, but there was no time for nostalgia with the tasks before me and Fearless Jones.
“You got a place for us?” Fearless asked.
“How long you boys wanna stay?”
“We’ll pay for the month,” I said, knowing that the price went up if you didn’t pay four and a half weeks in advance.
“You got furniture?” the ebony-eyed businesswoman wanted to know.
We didn’t answer.
“I had Florence Landis move out real quick last week. She left one adult bed and another one for her boy. There’s a table and chairs and some kitchen supplies. Two dollars more a week and you can have it.”
“Okay,” I said, going for my pocket.
Fontanelle reached out to stay my hand.
“Is this just livin’, or is it bidness?” she asked.
“Livin’,” I said.
Fontanelle didn’t have anything against me. We had done
“Livin’,” Fearless repeated.
Fontanelle smiled, took our money, and went to find the keys.
WE DIDN’T SPEND more than an hour in our new home. Two seven-minute baths, canned soup heated on the gas range, and we were out of the door.
Milo had found out from the white bailbondsman that Leon Douglas had taken a place on Orchard Street just a little south of Vernon Avenue. It was on a small half-lot, but that didn’t matter much because the house was no larger than a shack. The paint was so faded and worn that it was hard to tell if the place had been white or tan or blue.
“Ain’t that your car parked on the lawn, Paris?” Fearless asked.
It was. I wondered if Elana went along with the wheels. Had he killed her? I doubted it.
“Paris?”
“What?”
“What you wanna do?”
On my own I watched or lied or misrepresented. I never took danger head-on if there was a second choice. Fearless was the opposite of me; he moved ahead as a rule. He might use a back entrance or even surprise, but no matter what, he was always going forward.
I considered going up to the front door, but then Leon Douglas returned to my mind. He was an engine of
