for the second bane to start avoiding distress.
I was fully dressed and shod, so I stepped quietly through the screen door at the back of my house. I tiptoed down the wood stairs, hopped the fence into the alley, and ran like a six-year-old.
I didn’t slow down for three blocks.
Maybe it was childish to run away from my own home but, I reasoned, who but Trouble could be knocking at my door that early in the morning? Like I said before, I’m a small man. I’ve been chased, caught, and beaten by big-boned women.
“Runnin’ ain’t a bad thing, baby,” my mother used to tell me. “When you’re dead you’ll wish you had the legs for it.”
THE SUN WASN’T UP and there was still a chill in the desert air. There’s a system of alleyways in L.A. that make the streets in some southern towns look like country paths. The alley behind my building was wide and well paved, and it went on for twelve city blocks. There were no rats or cats, not even much trash strewn about. Just one long strip of asphalt with a ribbon of concrete down the middle, a permanent divider line.
After my initial sprint I slowed to a walk. A few streets down from there and I even began to feel safe. Whoever it was at my house had probably gone away. And even if they broke in, there was nothing to steal but books. (One of the books on my bedroom shelf had been hollowed out. That’s where I put Miss Fine’s five-dollar bills.) For a moment I worried about the fate of my last bookstore. The store owner next door burned me down to get the lot. That had been the worst experience of my life. After a little time fretting I stopped worrying about it. Lightning couldn’t strike twice, not even on my unlucky head.
17
“WHAT YOU SAY THAT NAME WAS AGAIN?” the desk sergeant at the Seventy-seventh Street Precinct asked.
I had walked there. It wasn’t very far, and being a pedestrian made me feel secure. My enemies, if they were out looking for me, would drive past a man on foot without a second glance.
“Tristan Jones,” I said to the sergeant.
“Um, let me see here,” the portly, bespectacled white man said as he thumbed through an oversized logbook on his side of the counter. “Oh I see. He owes a big fine, a very big fine.”
The sergeant closed the book and reached for the phone. He picked up the receiver, dialed a number, and waited for someone to answer.
“Hello, Jerry?” the sergeant said. “Yeah, it’s Rick. What you think about that Barbette, huh? Damn, I didn’t think she’d really do it but Frank said that she’s wild. . . . Uh-huh. . . . Yeah.”
I scratched my ear and waited patiently. Being a cop wasn’t a business. He didn’t have to make sure the customer was happy. If he wanted to say hello to the jailer before getting my friend, that was his prerogative.
The story he told was long and one-sided because I couldn’t hear the parts that the man on the other end of the line added. The gist of it was that this woman, Barbette, had made a wager that she would accompany a group of them to one of their friends’ apartment buck naked. She came in and visited with them just as if she were fully clothed. She hadn’t gotten embarrassed until a guy came over with his girlfriend.
“Can you imagine that?” Sergeant Rick said. “She didn’t mind us seein’ her titties and bush but another woman made her shy.”
I must have shifted or something, because Rick noticed me again.
“Hold on, Jerry,” he said into the phone, and then, “Can I help you?” he asked as if we had never met.
“Tristan Jones,” I said.
“I told you he’s bein’ held over for a big fine he owes.”
“How much is it?”
“Why?”
“Because I’d like to pay it and get my friend out of jail.”
“I have to call you back, Jerry,” Sergeant Rick said. Then he hung up.
Sighing heavily, he reopened the logbook. After turning pages back and forth half a dozen times, he said, “Yeah, yeah. That’s what I thought. It’s ninety-eight dollars and forty-seven cents.”
He slammed the book shut and actually reached for the phone again.
“Do you have change?” I asked, reaching for my wallet.
Sergeant Rick took off his glasses then. His eyes had looked small behind the lenses, but they shrank to almost nothing without the magnifying effect.
“Change for what?”
“Hundred-dollar bill.”
I kept the folded bill behind a sepia-tone photograph of my mother. I carried it around with me because I promised myself when I was a child that once I had enough money I’d always have a hundred bill just like a gambler my uncle once knew named Diamond Blackie.
Sergeant Rick held the tender up to the light, rubbed it between his fingers, turned it over and over. He did everything but lick Mr. Franklin’s face.
“Where’d you get this?” he asked.
“From the bank.”
