“Listen, Warren,” I said. “We could do each other a favor here.”
“How you know my name?”
“If they call my boss and tell him that I snuck in like this, he’d be forced to fire me. You know I cain’t have that,” I said, ignoring his question.
“How you know my name, man?”
“And there’s a certain young lady who would be very thankful that you kept it quiet about what you were doin’ to her up on the roof.”
Old Warren turned as white as his jacket.
“I don’t know if she’s married, but I bet your young wife might be upset with you bein’ unemployed and a cheat all at once.”
Warren looked like he wanted to hurt me, so I grabbed the envelope from his hand and walked out through the swinging doors, leaving him to consider the consequences of lust.
8
I MADE IT TO THE CAR and headed down toward my own neighborhood. As soon as I saw black faces on the street I parked and practiced breathing. My gut was still writhing, and my heart knocked against my chest like Fearless Jones at the door.
Fearless Jones was my best friend and more trouble than a white girl on the prowl in Mississippi. Here I thought I was smart, sneaking into a white residence, ringing a white man’s bell. But I should have known— whatever the worst could have been behind that door, it would have to come to pass if Fearless brought me there.
It was September. September is often L.A.’s hottest month. Eighty-five degrees. And still I was shivering on the inside.
Fear is the motivating force behind most of my actions. Whatever it is I’m most afraid of takes all of my attention. Right then I was afraid that the cops could place me at the scene of a murder. Forget that the man had been dead at least two days when I was caught by Warren at the back door. Forget that I had probably erased any scrap that might have put me in the dead man’s suite. If the police liked me for the murder, then I would be the murderer in their book—and their book was the only one that mattered.
I had to know why Kit Mitchell was missing, why Leora and Son were looking for him, and why he would have had free entree to a murdered car salesman’s apartment.
To answer these questions I pulled back into traffic and drove off toward the office of the bail bondsman—Milo Sweet.
MILO HAD MOVED from his Hooper address, over the illegal chicken distributors, to an apartment building on Baring Cross Street between 109th Street and 109th Place. Loretta Kuroko—Milo’s secretary, girl Friday, and final hope—was sitting in the little front room of the domicile-turned-office. She was forty with the skin of a twenty-year-old and the eyes of some ancient sage. She lived and worked down among black people because of her hatred for the white men who imprisoned her and her family during the war. And she adored Milo with a passion that could not be understood in contemporary terms. It wasn’t sexual, or at least I didn’t think it was. Their bond was like some ancient myth about two ideal characters carrying on their labors through the centuries, living out the drama and foibles of the whole human race.
“Hello, Paris,” Loretta said. “How are you?”
“Fine, Loretta.” I proffered a bunch of dahlias that I’d bought from a florist on Century Boulevard.
“Oh,” she said with light in her deep eyes. “Thank you so much.”
Milo never brought Loretta flowers or chocolates or even a paper cup of coffee—that wasn’t a part of their mythology.
“He’s back there. Go right on in,” she said. “I’ll put these in water.”
The hallway, from the front room to the back, was exactly two and a half paces. On the way you passed the door to a toilet on the right. That was where Loretta would get her water.
The back room was larger than the front, but it seemed smaller because of the eight file cabinets that Milo had against three walls. In those archives he had the records of his days as a lawyer—before he was disbarred—and as a restaurant owner, bookkeeper, and car insurance salesman. He’d also been a fence and a bookie, but I doubted if those records were still intact.
“Paris,” Milo shouted. It was his normal voice, but even Milo’s whisper was loud. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you, Milo,” I said.
He was sitting behind a maple desk, in a red leather recliner, under a naked hundred-watt bulb dangling from bare black cord. The chair in front of the desk looked like some sort of starved four-legged animal. I was afraid that even my few pounds would be the last straw.
But I sat anyway. The legs strained but held.
“What can I do for you?” Milo asked.
Milo’s skin color wasn’t as dark as Fearless’s, but it was close. He was a couple of inches taller than I and a few inches shorter than Fearless. His feet and hands belonged on someone who was much larger, and his body was naturally powerful. But Milo wasn’t a physical man. He was a thinker, a reader, a man who understood power but who was forever blocked from holding its reins.
Milo could quote passages from a thousand poems, do problems in calculus and trigonometry, but if you waved a stack of hundred-dollar bills under his nose he would forget his own name.
“Kit Mitchell,” I said.
The delay between hearing the name and his next breath was enough to let me know that Ted Timmerman had
