Fearless Jones

I thought, Oh my achin’ back, but I said, “My name’s Paris Minton.”

Antonio gave me that blank look that said, Don’t know you and don’t care to.

“I had the bookstore next door.”

“Oh,” he said, nodding. “So it was you. You’re the reason I don’t have my insurance.”

“What?”

“I got damage,” he said, the hint of an Italian accent coming through. “I called the insurance company and they send a man down here. He finds violations. Violations and he says that they won’t pay and that my insurance is canceled.”

“I didn’t make your violations, man. I lost my whole store.”

“But you were illegal. You slept there. You had a hot plate, maybe. Because you were careless, they punish me, a real businessman.”

It was the real businessman crack that got to me. I mean, what did he think? Didn’t he realize that I was in business too? Maybe I wasn’t making big money or anything like that, but I had regular hours and customers and fair prices. I was in business just like him. But that wasn’t the time for a philosophical discussion on the nature of business.

“Did somebody say that the fire was caused by a hot plate?” I asked.

“They don’t know. Maybe a cigarette, they said. Or maybe something with the wires. One man said something about gasoline.”

“Are they investigating?”

Antonio had small eyes. Between the bulge of his forehead and the chubbiness of his cheeks, they seemed gleeful in an evil sort of way. He homed those eyes in on me and said, “It wasn’t no more than an empty room. Why they want to investigate?”

I didn’t like what I was hearing. But I heard something even worse, something he didn’t mean to say. I didn’t like that either.

“Who cleaned off the lot next door?” I asked.

“How should I know? They were workmen. The landlords over there had insurance too. But their insurance agents couldn’t see the violations you had.”

It was my turn to stare. I looked hard at the store owner. He took out a small green rag with which he began to wipe the small space of the glass counter before him.

“Did the fire investigators come over here to talk to you?” I asked.

“Why would they?” he said, more defensive than angry.

26

I GOT BACK in my car, uncertain whether I should go find Theodore or wait and take care of the business at hand. Finally I decided that my worries over the store had to wait.

MESSENGER OF THE DIVINE looked a lot different in daylight. The stucco bungalow it inhabited was pathetic and gray around the edges. The red velvet curtains that had covered the picture window were now drawn back to reveal dozens of black men, women, and children crowded together, dressed in their Easter best. The men wore black suits with white flowers in their lapels. The women wore dark dress suits with fancy hats.

Recorded organ music issued through the open doors. I spied the coffin that stood up front. Before the coffin stood the elderly African-featured man I had met a few nights before, Father Vincent la Trieste.

Father Vincent was in the middle of his baritone sermon when I entered.

“… they won’t let us have his body,” Vincent was saying. “No. They say they’re keepin’ it for the coroner to examine. But we don’t care about them or their laws, do we, brothers and sisters?”

“No, Father. No,” was said by more than one.

“We know that the Lord called on Brother Grove. The Lord in his wisdom laid down his iron hand!”

“Preach,” someone said.

“Tell it,” another agreed.

“He laid down his iron hand for the mighty to tremble and the vermin to scurry away. But we are not afraid. No, no. We are not afraid of bullets and knives, of policemen who bar our way or of doctors fool enough to believe that they hold the answers of life and death in their hands. Only the Almighty has the power of life and death. Only the Almighty can reach out and snuff out the flame of life as if it was no more than a matchstick.” Vincent held out his left hand, slowly closing it against a