Even as a black American I felt patriotic about the war and my role in it. That’s why I found it so hard to comprehend wealthy and white American businessmen trading with such villains.
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Between Feather and Bonnie, Haffernon and Axel, Cinnamon and Joe Cicero, it was a wonder that I didn’t go crazy. Maybe I did, a little bit, lose control at the edges.
c h r i s t m a s b l a c k
had given me very good directions. I skirted downtown Riverside and took a series of side streets until I came to a graded dirt road that was still a city street. The houses were a little farther apart than in Los Angeles. The yards were larger and there were no fences between them. Unchained dogs snapped at my tires as I drove past.
After a third of a mile or so I came to the dead end of Wayfarer’s Road. Right where the road terminated stood a small white house with a yellow light shining over the doorway. It was the embodiment of peace and domesticity. You’d expect your aged, widowed grandmother to live behind that door. She’d have pies and a boiled ham to greet you.
I knocked and a child called out in some Asian language.
The door swung inward and a tall black man stood there.
“Welcome, Mr. Rawlins,” he said. “Come in.”
He was six foot four at least but his shoulders would have been a good fit for a man six inches taller. His skin was medium brown and there was a whitish scar beneath his left eye. The brown in his eyes was lighter than was common in most Negroes. And his hair was as close-cropped as you can get without being bald.
“Mr. Black?”
He nodded and stepped back for me to enter. A few steps away stood a small Asian girlchild dressed in a fancy red kimono.
She bowed respectfully. She couldn’t have been more than six years old but she held herself with the poise and attitude of the 2 2 8
C i n n a m o n K i s s
woman of the house. Just seeing her I knew that there was no wife or girlfriend in the black man’s life.
“Easy Rawlins, meet Easter Dawn Black,” Christmas said.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said to the child.
“It is an honor to have you in our home, Mr. Rawlins,” Easter Dawn said with solemnity.
To her right was a door open onto a bedroom, probably hers.
On the other side was a cavernous sitting room that had a very western, almost cowboy feel to it. The girl gestured toward the sitting room and I followed her direction.
Behind Easter was a bronze mirror. In the reflection I could see the satisfaction in Christmas’s face. He was proud of this little girl who could not possibly have been of his blood.
Feather came into my mind then and I tripped on the Indian blanket used as a throw rug. I would have fallen but Black was quick. He rushed forward and grabbed my arm.
“Thanks,” I said.
The sitting room had a fifteen-foot ceiling, something you would never have expected upon seeing the seemingly small house from the road. Beyond that room was a kitchen with a loft above it, neither room separated by walls.
“Sit,” Black said.
I sat down on one of the two wood-framed couches that he had facing each other.
He sat opposite me and flashed a brief smile.
“Tea?” Easter asked me.
“No thank you,” I said.
“Coffee?”
“Naw. I would never get to sleep then.”
“Ice water?”
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W a lt e r M o s l e y
“Are you going to keep on offering me drinks till you find one I want?” I asked her.
That was the first time she smiled. The beauty of her beaming face hurt me more than Bonnie and a dozen African princes ever could.
“Beer?” she asked.
“I’ll take the water, honey.”
“Daddy?”
“Whiskey and lime, baby.”
The child walked away with perfect posture and regal bearing.
I had no idea where she could have come from or how she got there.
“Adopted daughter,” Black said. “I got her when she was a tiny thing.”
